At Christmas

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year; He is almost what he should be when the Christmas seasons here; Then hes thinking more of others than hes thought the months before, And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for. He is less a selfish creature than at any other time; When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime. When its Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part; He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart. All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile And the true reward hes seeking is the glory of a smile. Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be. If I had to paint a picture of a man I think Id wait Till hed fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate. Id not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf, On the long days and the dreary when hes striving for himself. Id not take him when hes sneering, when hes scornful or depressed, But Id look for him at Christmas when hes shining at his best. Man is ever in a struggle and hes oft misunderstood; There are days the worst thats in him is the master of the good, But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide. Oh, I dont know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.