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The little white angel atop our tree
disappears every Christmas eve.
I remember what happened a year ago,
at 9:00 pm, I believe:
Bill had fallen and couldn't get up;
clearly he needed help.
Somebody called 9-1-1;
they heard his puppy yelp.
Johnny was speeding into the fog;
his wife's labor pains had begun.
A warning was whispered into his ear:
"Haste makes waste, my son."
His phone woke Fred from a terrible dream,
where someone was stealing his Lexus.
He heard two cars leave his garage;
told police that his tags were from Texas.
Up in the mountains, a lady was crying;
her car was hopelessly stuck.
In spite of the blizzard, help got thru;
someone had called a tow truck.
We know not what the future holds,
but we know Who holds the future.
At half-past nine our angel returned;
we hardly even missed her.
by D. Edgar Murray 12/23/2003.
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