I enter the home of poverty,
causing pale-faced children to open their
eyes wide in pleased wonder.
I cause the miser’s clutched hand to relax,
and thus paint a bright spot on his soul.

I cause the aged to renew their youth
and to laugh in the glad old way.

I keep romance alive in the heart of childhood,
and brighten sleep with dreams woven of magic.

I cause eager feet to climb dark stairways
with filled baskets, leaving behind hearts
amazed at the goodness of the world.

I cause the prodigal to pause a moment on his wild,
wasteful way, and send to anxious love some little token
that releases glad tears -
tears which wash away the hard lines of sorrow.

I enter dark prison cells,
reminding scarred manhood of what might have been,
and pointing forward to good days yet to come.

I come softly into the still, white home of pain,
and lips that are too weak to speak
just tremble in silent, eloquent gratitude.

In a thousand ways I
cause the weary world to look up into the face of God
and for a little moment forget the things
that are small and wretched.

I am the Christmas Spirit.

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Written by E.C. Baird.