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It was four in the morning,
the first glimpse
of winter, snowflakes fastening
in a myriad of odd designs
to my windshield as I drove
to the spot
I was summoned when
I thought to myself
there was no sure way
of telling
when this angel would appear,
but never did I think
of Christmas day as the
appointed time.
So in the white-walled room,
among hushed voices,
a bright light and halo of
soft down hair shone
and legions of officials hovered
at your call,
stethoscopes and scales,
sterile oohs and ahhs
pour forth from round O mouths
and bounce off
the square-tiled ceiling
to anoint
your precious crown, that's when
I thought again
how remarkable
God’s plans,
how He can determine a first birth,
a first child,
My first grandchild,
to come
this very day, this Christmas Day,
while snow
falls softly, as snow should fall
on a Christmas Day
and the earth is quiet, still,
and when your daddy
rocks you in his arms,
looks up,
meets my eye, smiles
and says
I think we’ll call her Victoria.
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