Flickering Flame,
Dance among the walls,
Surrounded by damp earth.
Worn and weary,
Draped in the depression,
Of another long day.
Nary a sound,
Can be heard here,
Save the subtle rasps of barbed wire,
and weak moans of snowy wind.
Oh, on this holy nght,
The men wrap themselves,
In muddy green blankets,
Staving off the chill of homesickness.
On this night,
No fat turkey spits in their fire,
No evergreen sparkles on the embankment,
Tipped by a golden star.
Only the stars seemed calm,
Looking upon No Man's Land below,
Shining their celestial glow,
Upon a depressing scene.
A single young man,
Looks above and finds his voice,
Soft and clear,
Like the cry of a dove.
Silent Night drifts from his lips,
To the ears and heavens around,
Out of the trench,
And across the span, his voice can be heard.
Stirring the hearts of his foes,
Another voice adds to the song,
A bit deeper and rougher,
In his mother tongue.
This duet, offkey to the ear,
Continues through until the end,
A moment of silence,
Issues again, before a new song begins.
Another and another,
The voices do sound,
In a joyous rounde,
Transcendence abounds.
The young man,
Who was the first to sing,
Stands and offers a thing,
A tiny flag made of white.
A gift, in so many ways,
Gladly accepted by all,
This tiny flag,
Was raised above them all.
Out of the trenches,
They did come,
Sharing spirits,
Of man and heavenly origins.
An exchange of hands,
Of meager gifts,
Carved of shells,
and bullet clips.
A tiny tree,
One man produced,
Made of cellophane,
The most beautiful of all.
Crafted from the wrappers,
Of food and cigarettes,
It needed no gaudy bulbs,
Or imitation star upon its highest bough.
On this night,
There were no evergreens,
Pretty boxes or bows,
Nary a sprig of Holly to be found.
Yet a gift, precious and sweet,
Was given here, needing no trappings,
One of strength, beauty, and cheer,
The gift of Peace.