A CHOICE CAROL It was just 100 years ago that Phil lips Brooks, a young rector of Phila delphia, was over in Bethlehem. He stood on the top of a little rugged hill and looked down upon the vil lage. There he could see shepherds below and the twinkling stars above. It was comparatively easy to relive in his mind the night on which Christ the Saviour was born. Those pene trating thoughts remained with him and three years after his visit to the nativity scene, Brooks, who loved to work with children, composed a lovely poem for them. The first line began, “0 Little Town of Bethlehem.” When he read the poem to the boys and girls, there seemed to be a spontane ous desire to sing it. So, the church organist, Lewis Redner, accepted the challenge, promising that by the fol lowing Sunday he would endeavor to have an acceptable melody for the lovely words. But try as he would, working for the entire week, for some reason the inspiration just wouldn’t come. Then late Saturday evening, while he was sleeping, a haunting re frain seemed to awaken him. He got up, jotted down the notes which he taught to the children the next morn ing. As they happily sang it, Redner couldn’t help but feel that the music was given by God. But more than the song, we love the Saviour of whom it melodically tells us. His birth, death and resurrection have changed the course of the world and, more than this, of individual lives. Eternal life is His gift to us when we recognize Him as the Son of God Who loved us and gave Himself for us.
CAN THIS BE CHRISTMAS? What meaneth all this fuss and worry? Whence go these crowds to run and scurry? Why all the lights -— the Christmas trees? And the silly "fat man," tell me please! Why, don't you know? This is the day When everybody should be gay, For this is Christmas! So this is Christmas, do you say? But where is Christ this Christmas Day? Has He been lost among the throng? His voice drowned out by empty song? No, He's not here— you'll find Him where Some humble soul now kneels in prayer; There you'll find Christ — not Christmas. But see the many fickle thousands Who gather on this Christmas Day, Whose ears have never yet been opened, Or said to Him, "Come in to stay." In countless homes the candles burn ing, In countless hearts expectant yearn ing For gifts and presents, food and fun, And laughter till the day is done. But not a tear of grief or sorrow For Him so poor He had to borrow A crib, a colt, a boat, a bed Where He could lay His weary head. I'm sick of this empty celebration, Of feasting, drinking, recreation; I'll go instead to Calvary. And there I'll kneel with those who know The meaning of that manger low, And find the CHRIST — not Christmas. In endless bliss we then shall dwell With Him who saved our souls from Hell, And worship H IM — not Christmas! — M. R. DeHaan
Portion of Biola Campus Chapel.
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