I read this poem in my union paper last year, which is usually filled with socialistic tripe, but this time they actually printed something I could relate to. It was written by Lance Corporal James Schmidt, and is a variation on his original one, and was published in the 'Leatherneck' magazine in 1991. It is about our soldiers in Afghanistan, but I think it could be for all those serving all over the world. I feel sorry for them, since they have to regurgitate the drivel given by the government, and, therefore, cannot express their beliefs in God. This soldier has nailed the sentiments. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Keep these brave people in your prayers.
Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
in a one bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give,
and to see just who in this home did live.
No stocking hung by mantle, just boots filled with sand,
on the wall hung pictures of far distant lands.
With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
a sober thought came through my mind.
For this house was different, it was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room is such disorder,
not how I pictured a United States Soldier.
Was this the hero of whom I'd just read?
curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families that I saw this night
owed their lives to these soldiers
who were willing to fight.
Soon round the world, the children would play,
and grownups would celebrate a bright Christmas Day.
They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year,
because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.
I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home.
The very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and started to cry.
The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice;
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more.
my life is my God, my Country, my Corps."
The soldier rolled over and drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.
I kept watch for hours, so silent and still
and we both shivered from the cold night's chill.
I didn't want to leave on that cold, dark night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.
Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
whispered, "Carry on Santa, it's Christmas Day; all is secure."
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right.
"Merry Christmas my friend,
and to all a good night."
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