He
little knew the sorrow
that was in his vacant
chair;
He never guessed they'd
miss him, or he'd surely
have been there;
He couldn't see his
mother or the lump that
filled her throat,
Or the tears that
started falling as she
read his hasty note;
And he couldn't see his
father, sitting
sorrowful and dumb,
Or he never would have
written that he thought
he couldn't come.
He little knew the
gladness that his
presence would have
made,
And the joy it would
have given, or he never
would have stayed.
He didn't know how
hungry had the little
mother grown
Once again to see her
baby and to claim him
for her own.
He didn't guess the
meaning of his visit
Christmas Day
Or he never would have
written that he couldn't
get away.
He couldn't see the
fading of the cheeks
that once were pink,
And the silver in the
tresses; and he didn't
stop to think.
How the years are
passing swiftly, and
next Christmas it might
be
There would be no home
to visit and no mother
dear to see.
He didn't think about it
- - I'll not say he
didn't care.
He was heedless and
forgetful or he'd surely
have been there.
by
Edgar Guest
Are you going home
for Christmas? Have you
written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss
mother and to show her
that you care?
Going home to greet
father in a way to make
him glad?
If you're not I hope
there'll never come a
time you'll wish you
had.
There are many of us that would
love to see their parents
this Christmas.
They have departed this earth and
were saved are now in
the
arms of Jesus. Just sit down and
write a letter - - it will make
their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect
gladness - - if you'll
tell them that you'll
come.
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