The House of Christmas

I grew up in a house where poetry was read, sometimes aloud. One of my early recollections is of my father sitting in the living room of our house (affectionately known as the barn), with his legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, reading this poem, while my sister and I sat on the floor listening. When I hear exquisite verse, like this, written by G.K. Chesterton, it is both edifying and humbling. Here was a poet! This poem isn't homey or familiar. It is altogether strange... which is appropriate really if you stop to consider the profound nature of the Incarnation of Christ. Not warm and fuzzy, but strange, and mystical and wonderful! It's not only one of my favorite Christmas poems, but one of my favorite poems overall.

The House of Christmas

By G.K. Chesterton

There fared a mother driven forth

Out of an inn to roam;

In the place where she was homeless

All men are at home.

The crazy stable close at hand,

With shaking timber and shifting sand,

Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand

Than the square stones of Rome.

 

For men are homesick in their homes,

And strangers under the sun,

And they lay their heads in a foreign land

Whenever the day is done.

 

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,

And chance and honour and high surprise,

But our homes are under miraculous skies

Where the yule tale was begun.

 

A child in a foul stable,

Where the beasts feed and foam;

Only where He was homeless

Are you and I at home;

We have hands that fashion and heads that know,

But our hearts we lost---how long ago!

In a place no chart nor ship can show

Under the sky's dome.

 

This world is wild as an old wife's tale,

And strange the plain things are,

The earth is enough and the air is enough

For our wonder and our war;

But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings

And our peace is put in impossible things

Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings

Round an incredible star.

 

To an open house in the evening

Home shall all men come,

To an older place than Eden

And a taller town than Rome.

To the end of the way of the wandering star,

To the things that cannot be and that are,

To the place where God was homeless

And all men are at home.