Poetry Experiments

Hiding.
C.K. Armistead
June 5, 2013

Behind the smile
Can you see the tears?
Beyond the wiles
I have used all these years.

Be a lady, be charming
Smile, always smile
Deep thoughts are alarming
And seldom in style.

But the thoughts are there
Drawing me to ponder
The truth of the face I wear
And luring me with wonder.

I am a lady, I am charming
I do smile, and gladly
My thoughts are not alarming
Nor do they pass sadly.

I can see now that there
Is more to everyone
Than the faces we wear
So easily undone.

We all wear a mask
To hide truths that we fear
When the better task
Would be to show the tears.



Oklahoma Spring

C.K. Armistead June5, 2013

When the sun is shining
And the air is sweet
The sky is the most beautiful
And life feels complete.
 Then the clouds will gather
And the thunder will be heard
And we all will wonder
If tornadoes will appear.
 You learn right quick
On this prairie plain
What's really important
And what's just a game.
 Houses can be rebuilt
Lost things replaced
Good neighbors and friends
Are better than gold.
 It's not the beauty of this place
That makes us want to stay
Not the low cost of living
We don't think of it that way.
 The reason we're still here
Has more to do with love
With grit and perseverance
And faith in God above.
 Even those who don't believe
Are welcome in this place
For we love our neighbors
Regardless of race or creed.
 And when the storms are over
We come out and set to work
Rebuilding lives and memories
Glad to see each other well.

Overwhelmed, Grateful, Weary, Hopeful and Teary

That pretty much sums me up right about now.
I had a bit of frustration trying to get in to work this morning, and I am glad my windows were up, or the folks walking on the sides of the road might have heard some words that would have singed their ears.  The dude in the truck in front of me was obviously lost.  I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he was a volunteer looking for a place to park, but I'm afraid he was yet another lookie-loo.  At any rate, he stopped FOUR TIMES in a 2 block space, and I REALLY needed him to get OUT of my way.  I barely made it in the door of the library on time.  At least the cops had done pretty well at discouraging people from parking in the Library Staff ONLY spots.  Ya want the library open so you can use the nice restrooms?  Let the staff have their parking spots.

We don't have a whole lot of stuff coming back in yet, but that will come soon enough.   Trips to the book drop were an adventure.  There are several groups here cooking for anybody who needs fed.  The library parking lot is where the city set them up, for some reason. 

The photo at the left shows what I saw when I left the front doors of the library with my donated shopping cart (thank you, Walmart Neighborhood Market) to head for our "big green" book drop out in the circle drive.  I was sure there would be nothing in it when I got there, there's no way for people to drive up and put items in the drop.  WRONG.  There were several items in the drop.  Seems people have been parking and walking up and dropping their items in the drop.  They have also managed to find ways around the relief truck blockade and put things in our back drop that empties directly into the building. 

You can see the drop chutes in the far upper left of the photo at right, which shows cases of water that have been stacked against the back side of the library since Monday night. We are INUNDATED with supplies, and volunteers here in Moore.  Our officials are very appreciative, and are trying to co-ordinate between volunteer agencies and the governments of other cities hit by the tornadoes to maybe get some of those volunteers out to the smaller communities who were hit and REALLY need some help.  Not that we don't need help, we do, but those little towns just don't have the resources we have, and they are away from main highways, so it is harder for the media to find them.
People keep calling to find out if we are open. People come in, and are actually teary-eyed when they look around and see that their library is just like they left it the last time they were in. All the books and all the staff are OK, and still here for them.  I almost cried several times on the Customer Service Desk this morning.  Our customers love us, and we love them.   Mahlon, the young lady I was most worried about during all of this, came in today, and I hugged her SO tight. I've known that girl since she was one of our "volunteens" in Summer Reading when she was maybe 13 or so.  She's a college student now, and she is a clerk working at our South OKC branch.  She is a sweetie, and her mom is about the same age I am.  I was SO glad to see with my own eyes that our Mahlon is all right.  Bless her.  She was almost crying herself.  She's been worried about all of us, too.Thank God for Face Book and Twitter, or we'd all be a lot MORE worried about each other.
I do have a great deal of sadness, though.  Mr. Hemant Bhonde, a regular customer who always brought a smile with him, and left us smiling, was taken by the storm.  He had been ill recently, and not in as often, but we still saw him once in a while.  He always stopped to talk to me and Julie, and joked around with us.  He was from India, and worked at the GM plant.  He was also a volunteer in our Computer Training Center at one time.  He was a sweet man, and I will miss him.  I always smile when I think of him, though.  He left that legacy with his library friends, that thinking of him makes us smile.
Some of those children who died were customers that I can remember seeing in the library.  It is always especially sad to lose children, and it hits home even more when those children are ones who came up to you on a regular basis and asked for their library card number, or gave you their books to check out. Summer Reading starts soon.  There are now a few less kids to come and read with us.  We are all very sad about that.
 We are grateful for all the support and help that has been pouring into Moore.  It is very overwhelming when you are trying to do anything around our building or even our area of town, though.
Here are a few photos to prove my point:

 To the left, you see the view of our parking lot between us and the Community Center. "Big Green" is visible by the hedge on the far left of the photo.  The building with the large air conditioning units visible on top is the Community Center.  The cookers and the semi trailers are from a company based in Arkansas that has been here since Tuesday cooking and serving meals to whoever wants some.

 To the right, this is the view looking North on Howard Street from the library circle drive.  Those are customers' cars and volunteers' cars parked on a street that really ISN'T supposed to have parking on it.

 The photo on the left was taken from the south end of the drive that runs behind the library.  Those are the semi trailers full of chicken that the cookers are fixing for everybody.  I often jokingly tell customers on the phone to come get something to check out and pick up some free food while you're at it.

 To the right, you see the view out the West lobby doors of the library.  Brown building on the right is the temporary police station.  (New one is being built at Main and Broadway, will be finished sometime late this year, maybe.) Clouds and a highway full of lookie-loos.  Just what we need.

 This is the view out the staff door on the west side of the building.  Police station, Interstate beyond, and I think the farthest building there is a church across the Interstate.  Lots more vehicles than are usually in this location on a Saturday afternoon.

To the right is a view of the parking lot immediately in front of the Community Center.  As you can see, one of the fire crews had stopped in for some food, and an ambulance crew, too.  These folks have been working 12 hr. shifts with little or no downtime all week.

It means a lot to know that all these people just wanted to help our city.  Many just up and left and are giving up their Memorial Day weekend plans to be here to help take care of Moore, Oklahoma.
Many, many people have told me this week that relatives have told them they should leave, that obviously Moore wasn't a safe place to live.  They all then said what I've always said.  There's just something about this town.  The people are so special, even when they disagree violently with your politics, they still care about you, they still love you.  They look at you with tears in their eyes after something like this and say from the bottom of their heart "It is SO GOOD to see you!"   Complete strangers come and ask if they can help.  It happens every day here, you need something, someone will ask if they can help.

We are all weary of the weather right now.  Leery of it, too.  Those clouds out there were being viewed with great suspicion.  There was a slight chance of a thunderstorm here today, but any that popped up were far to the south of Moore.  Still, people are nervous.  I bet it's quite awhile before we hear our weekly siren tests again.  People's nerves are still too raw.  (And besides, they know all the sirens that are still here work.  They gave them quite a workout on Monday.)
We had people calling to ask us to check the Weather Service website for them.  A few were where they had no access to a weather radio or TV.  Some don't have smart phones, so they call us.  We are the all-purpose reference tool, after all.  (And sometimes it feels like people expect us to know everything, just because we work in the library.)  (We all know a lot of things, but none of us knows EVERYTHING.  Our heads would explode.  Seriously.  )

Those of us who were here in '99 have one advantage over the newer folks in town.  We remember how things were before that tornado, and how they were re-built even BETTER afterwards.  That's where the hopefulness comes in.  I know this town will rebuild, and I know it will be even better than before.  Our city government does all it can to help residents get the information and help they need to get their homes rebuilt safely, and the Chamber and other civic agencies help business owners.  Those of us who live here help by shopping at our local stores as much as possible.  We support the retailers that believed in Moore and put their stores here.  We really support Bill Warren and his theater because he has always believed in Moore, even though he's from Kansas, and has supported this community from the day he decided to put his theater here.  He builds all his theaters with severe weather in mind.  (It's because he's from Kansas.  They get lots of tornadoes, too, you know.)
I have hope that our hospital will be rebuilt, and it will be better than before.  Norman Regional owns it, and their newer buildings are beautiful.  We are hopeful that the new hospital will be one of those beautiful buildings.  I had an appointment at the hospital Breast Care Center for next month.  They have already called me to reschedule the appointment at the Porter Road campus of the hospital.  They were even able to give me the same day and the same time.

I get teary when I think about what could have happened on Monday.  It was really, really bad, but it could have been SO much worse.   We had warning enough for most of us to take shelter, the tornado missed our large retail stores (where there were lots of people), and the kids hadn't gotten on their buses to go home yet.
I get teary, too, thinking about how close it came to my own home, how we STILL don't have a shelter (partly my fault because a good one costs so much), and well, this is all so stressful, it is making a lot of us teary.  Like I said, customers come in and tear up because they are so glad we are still there, and the books are still there, and I get teary because our customers are all right, and it IS good to see them.
It makes me tear up when all the ex-pat Okies I know start raising funds to send to the relief efforts, and how so many tweeted and messaged on Face Book, and emailed and called to see if we were all right.  I get choked up when Matt hears from the barbecue cookers who want to come and cook for folks.  They are here and serving lots of hot meals to people who might not otherwise have one.  Matt has done a lot to get the cookers in touch with folks who may need them.  He also spent the day helping clean Veteran's Memorial Park.  I'm proud of him.  He pretends this stuff doesn't upset him,  "Shit happens" he says, but I know deep down he really cares, and he wants to help make things more normal for folks, too.
Another emotional thing going on today was all the pictures people are finding in their yards and bringing to the library so the folks who are looking to reunite them with their owners can collect them.  Sad, mud-spattered, some edges torn, some water damaged. Wedding photos, Basic Training portraits of young servicemen and women, portraits of children, somebody's photo ID from work, all little pieces of someone's life.  And you find yourself hoping the people in the pictures are OK, and that they'll be getting those pictures back soon. That's my prayer for my little adopted home town.  That the people are all OK, and that they'll be getting those little pieces of their lives back in order real soon.
And maybe the lookie-loos will grow up and stay out of the way for awhile, and then we can get somewhere on I-35 again, maybe the volunteers will get better organized and not park all over Howard Street so we can almost not drive through, and then maybe I'll be able to get to work in less than five minutes again.  (Unless there's a train.) In other words, we'll find our "new normal" and get on with life.

My Stories of the April 19, 1995 Bombing in Oklahoma City

Here are three essays I wrote after the bombing.  There are some poems to post with these as well.  This work says how this act of terror affected me, and the community around me.  I hope they bring understanding to any who wish to know more about the chaos and the deep feelings of that time eighteen years ago today.  More may be learned about the experiences of Oklahomans that day by searching on social media for the hashtag #foreverchanged.

A Place Of Perfect Peace
By
Carolyn Kay Armistead -- 1996

As we drive into the downtown area, I can still see damaged buildings - scars from the bombing. As we leave the car in the south parking lot, and walk toward the golden limestone of the Cathedral, I am jarred once again by the still-boarded up windows in the front of the Cathedral itself. By the time we are all the way across Seventh Street, and entering the wrought-iron gates of the cloister, my mind has already recovered. Instead of dwelling on the damage, I am already thinking of the service ahead, what we will be singing, whether it will be too warm to leave my blouse on under the cassock of my choir vestment.

Across the bricked surface of the cloister, dark and cool with trees even in the summer, we pass the Lenten cross, the same cross that was propped against that tree when the bomb hit last year. Now we head up the steps to the door of the Parish House. This old, varnished wood door has never been the easiest to open, but since the bombing it is even more reluctant to move, and creaks its protest in loud metallic groans. Now up the old, creaking and popping stairs to the choir room, and into the safe territory of music folders and hymnals and vaguely mothball scented choir vestments. Here we don our robes and find our service bulletins and wait for the rest of the choir to assemble.

When we gather to rehearse our anthem one last time before the service, we share many warm greetings, and small jokes. We are family, and we are making the best of things. Our service is not to be held in the beautiful old Cathedral, with its jewel-like Tiffany windows, glowing white marble high altar, and wonderful old- church smell compounded of beeswax, incense, leather, and distilled prayer. No, our service must be held in the dun brown school cafeteria /auditorium atmosphere of Dean Willey Hall, in the education building next to the Parish House.

Our Cathedral, you see, is only two blocks north of where the Murrah Federal Building used to be. When that blast hit, it tore at Oklahoma's heart in many ways, not the least of which were the many downtown churches damaged by that blast. Our Cathedral is one of them. The roof was lifted and then unceremoniously dumped back on walls unprepared for such strain. It still stands, but faces extensive reinforcement and repair. For now, our solemn, beautiful, peaceful place of prayer is full of scaffolding. A big thick plastic sheet covers the whole chancel-sanctuary area from floor to ceiling. The great marble altar still seems to glow at you through the gloom of dust and plastic. The two Tiffany windows still shine out through the gloom with defiant brightness.

For all the scaffolding, and the plastic, I can still close my eyes, and smelling that wonderful essence of old church, I can feel the same peace and love surround me there that I felt the very first time I prayed in that Cathedral three years ago. My husband and I were newly transferred here to Oklahoma City, after a four year tour in Germany. We were homesick for old friends, and heartsick because my mother was ill. St. Paul's Cathedral was the second Episcopal church we "sampled" in our search for a "home church." St. Paul's welcomed us with open, loving arms. Not just the people of St. Paul's, but that old Cathedral itself seemed to reach out to enclose me in its comforting embrace.

As time went on, we got more comfortable in Oklahoma City, and other interests interfered with our regular attendance at church. We drifted away from that peaceful place. Then, on April 19, 1995, a bomb blast changed our lives, and the lives of all Oklahomans, forever. As I worked my way through anger and shock and disbelief at what had happened to those people, and especially the children, I began to remember that the Cathedral was near there. As soon as I realized how close the blast was to St. Paul's, I began scanning the news pictures for a sight of the church. There it was! Still standing! The old golden limestone was still glowing in the mid-morning sun, but things were wrong. The Celtic cross on the south peak of the Cathedral roof was missing an arm, and the stained glass windows in the Narthex were gone. I began to worry and to pray for the secretaries, the bookstore ladies, and the clergy that I knew might have been there working when the bomb hit. I was very angry that the one place I most wanted to go to seek peace and reassurance might be lost to me forever.

My husband was one of the military volunteers who worked at the bomb site. He told me that many times, after coming out of that building disgusted and depressed, he would hear the clock chimes from one of the nearby churches and think of St. Paul's. He would look up, and gather strength from the sight of that brave, one-armed cross on the peak of the Cathedral roof. He, too, wanted to go back and try to repay the love that St. Paul's had shown us from the very beginning. We needed the Cathedral, and they needed us.

The very first day that we could, we went to the Cathedral to offer our help. We were welcomed back with great affection, as though we had never been away at all. This time, we stayed, and found work for ourselves to do in the gardens, on the host committee, and in the choir. Matt also used his computer knowledge to help publicize the Capital Funds Drive to raise money needed for restoration expenses not covered by insurance. We are home to stay.

The Cathedral lost no staff to the bombing, nor did we lose any parishioners, but a couple of parishioners were injured, as they worked in the Journal Record Building across from the bombing site. It has been almost a year since the bombing, and here we are, just beginning to rebuild our buildings. Our congregation however, is strong and close-knit. We have been rebuilding each other with love and caring all this past year. This choir that I rejoice in singing with has helped me feel that I am making a contribution toward that healing. It has also helped to heal me. I was in the choir at the church I grew up in, and I had missed that unique family feeling that comes when one is part of a choir. Music does more than soothe us; it unites us in worship. As we sing throughout the service, I feel that sense of love and peace from the Cathedral itself has followed us here. We are family. We have love: each other's and God's. Nothing will ever change that.

Suffused with this love of God and each other, and with hope for the future, we leave our worship, and the fellowship of our Cathedral family, and head back out into the city again. This time I see all the new windows and other improvements that have come about since the bombing, and I know soon enough our old Cathedral's buildings will be whole again as well.



Looking to Reclaim Peace
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
April 16, 1997

As we get closer to the day we will worship again in our restored Cathedral, I find a sense of restless expectation building, mixed with some nervous fear. It is wonderful to look forward to having our worship space back, but the reason we lost use of it in the first place is still painful.

Yet, in spite of this I feel the excitement is building, more than at Christmas or Easter. The anticipation is nearly unbearable. We will see the inside of our refurbished Cathedral on Saturday for a rehearsal, but it seems a lifetime away still.

That old Cathedral, so welcoming, familiar, and safe is made new, unfamiliar, perhaps a little bit treacherous. My mind doesn't have all the details of the layout, the sounds, smells, feeling of this place in storage like it did for the old space. Things will surprise me, perhaps some smells from varnish or new carpet may offend my nose, the acoustics may produce an unfamiliar resonance.

We will go in on Sunday to worship, to sanctify this space anew with the perfume of our prayers and songs, to add incense and candle wax back to the aura of the place. We will also go to rejoice in a reunion with an old and dearly loved friend, and as with a human friend, we will look for the familiar features among the changes wrought by time and separation. We hope to see that same warm and comforting countenance among the new finery.

Will that refurbished space still resonate with nearly a century's worth of prayer and worship? Will the newly cleaned and restored stained glass windows still give a mellow and diffuse light? Will our new contributions of incense and candle wax overcome the smell of varnish to bring out the old "odor of sanctity?" Will I know my place? Will I do the right thing at the right time and so not distract myself or others from the reason we are there? Will I be able to sing through my tears?

For I will cry, I know that. I cry when I think on it, the lovely place of comfort I longed for two years ago, so abruptly taken from me. I will cry again because of the children, all the little ones lost, and their parents, that I wanted to go and pray for on that day.

Though I do feel some trepidation, I know in my heart that the same comfort, the same peace will be available there that were there in the past. The same Lord is worshipped and adored in that place, and as the peace given by that Cathedral is His peace, it will be the same. For all the changes we must endure, this truth we do hold fast; Christ is steadfast, His love never changes.

And so, in my mixture of emotions about coming back into the Cathedral itself, I find joy working its way to the surface. Which is as it should be. Out of our great sorrow, God has heard our cries and prayers, and our songs of praise sung in spite of our loss. Now is the time to celebrate answered prayer, to enter into His gates with thanksgiving and into His courts with praise. With songs of thankful rejoicing, let us go.



A Place of Peace and Joy
By
Carolyn Kay Armistead -- April 20, 1997

As we drive into the downtown area again, I can see new glass in most windows, few buildings are boarded up anymore. There are signs of new life everywhere. The sky is a brilliant blue, and the sun warms us as we leave our car in the parking lot. We stop at the curb to look up at the Cathedral again, and our weary, longing eyes are met with a joyful sight.

No more boarded up windows in the narthex, no more construction fence, no more "hazardous area" tape across the doors. Instead, the beautiful new doors to our Cathedral stand open, welcoming everyone back inside. We cross the street, but head into the cloister and from there to the education building and up to musty old Dean Willey Hall for a choir rehearsal, and to put on our vestments.

There is a real sense of anticipation here today as we prepare for our first service in the renewed Cathedral. Oh, the nine o'clock service has already taken place, but for those of us who come to the 11 o'clock service, this is the first time. We are all lamenting how warm it is going to be in the loft because the air conditioning has yet to be installed. Everyone is dressed for summer weather and some delay putting their vestments on until after rehearsal.

I am still afraid that I will trip, or go the wrong way, or do something else foolish during the processional or at Communion. No, I tell myself, it will be all right. After all, we've spent the last two years dodging all kinds of obstacles in Dean Willey Hall with dignity, if not grace. I'll manage.

Yesterday we sang in the Cathedral for the first time, and it is glorious! The acoustics are wonderful. We don't have to strive so hard to be heard. Our loft is beautiful, and we can see the whole of the chancel and sanctuary area, and most of the nave from up there.

That lovely Cathedral is definitely still a place of beauty, but yesterday there were too many things going on at once to be very peaceful. We were rehearsing, the acolytes were practicing, people were coming in to see the new space, it was quite an uproar. Yet, that old Cathedral seemed to be laughing with delight, both at its new finery, and at seeing all of us again. If buildings can smile, St. Paul's Cathedral was grinning from ear to ear yesterday during that rehearsal time.

Today, on Sunday, despite some confusion before the processional, we will have a wondrous and inspiring service. As we enter the Cathedral in procession, I am struck again by the majesty of this restored space. The sanctuary walls, which used to be a coral color, are now a rich, textured red, against which the white marble of the high altar really shines. The two Tiffany windows on either side of the high altar are sparkling like jewels in the morning sunlight. As I turn to go up the side aisle on my way back to our choir stairs, I notice all the beautiful stained glass windows down the side of the Cathedral. They are all newly cleaned and restored. They too seem to glimmer in the light. I also note, as I go out the door to the narthex, that the smell of varnish is very faint, and that candle wax and incense, and some of that old "odor of sanctity" are indeed making inroads in the restored Cathedral's atmosphere.

I scramble through the narthex, still unfinished, and up the as yet uncarpeted stairs to our loft. I stop, breathless, in front of my seat on the west side- front row, right next to the organ console. I struggle to catch my breath and find my place in my music. (I find that I cannot sing and climb stairs at the same time.)

As we get into the sermon portion of the service, I find myself awestruck again at the glorious appearance of our Cathedral. The vaulted ceiling of the chancel is now flanked by the vaults above the two small side chapels. Then I look around at the loft I am sitting in, and realize that one set of dormers, with their stained glass windows, are there where we are now level with them.

Also, I see many comfortingly familiar things. I look down on the congregation, and there is Mrs. Long in her usual place, with Mary Kathryn sitting next to her, where we used to always sit in the row behind them before we joined the choir. It is so good to see them back in their usual place. To be able to see the Dean when he preaches a very moving sermon, to be able once again to kneel at the high altar to receive Communion, to hear so many familiar voices around about me lifted in praise to God, all of that brings my spirit home. Home to that same peaceful and comforting space the Cathedral has always been for me. All through the service my spirits soared, this is my beloved, longed for Cathedral, and it is better than it was.

I have my chance to say a prayer for those who were lost two years ago, but for a wonder, I do not cry. So comforting and familiar is that place, my longed for place, that I do not need to cry. Once again, that old Cathedral seems to reach out to me in my place of sorrow, and gather me in its arms and give me the peace I have been searching for. It also fills my heart with joy. Joy in finding a dear old friend alive and well after a long separation.

I have found my place, and not only did I know my place, but my place knew me, and it seemed glad that I was there. Yes, our place of love and solace is restored to us, and our congregation has breathed a well - deserved sigh of relief.

There are many things to delight in about our restored Cathedral, but the best thing is something we've had all along: each other. If not for the love and strength in this congregation, we would have no church at all. If not for the strength and leadership of our Dean, this restoration would never have been possible.

This day's celebrations were not just to delight in being in our beloved Cathedral again, but also to thank God for the love He gave to us. Love for God, and love for one another. The joy which we have shared this day will be with us through many difficult times ahead, as we finish restoring the whole Cathedral campus. It will sustain us, and so will that love that God has put into our hearts.

Adam's Angel
(A meditation during the organ recital, Nov. 17, 1998)
By Carolyn Kay Armistead

To the rest of us
She is nothing but colored glass
An adornment
But she speaks to Adam;
Or maybe only he will hear her.

Adam isn't always clean
In his Army coat of scruffy green
But he is always serene
As he goes on his way
Beaming.
Doing the Angel's bidding.

"He talks to himself."
One will say.
"He's insane."
Says another.
I don't care.
He talks to angels
And the church wouldn't feel right
Without Adam
Besides,
Isn't he our brother?

Adam, in the old coat,
Who talks to stained glass angels,
And sees a truth we don't.





A Cathedral Christmas
By Carolyn Kay Armistead
1998

Here we are again:
The faithful and the now and then,
Assembled once more with great joy
To welcome a special baby boy.

This time our Cathedral is restored
To give homage to the One adored;
Our family home again made new,
Through with the years of "making do."

A delight to all the senses it becomes,
With new organ to support our songs,
And finery restored to its original glory,
The better to illustrate the Gospel story.

So round His table again we gather,
Banished is the world and all its bother,
For we are family, loved and treasured;
A gift with value too great to be measured.

As into the cold, crisp night we go,
Our hearts remain with love aglow.
Each face we have seen, each voice is precious,
For in each is God's love for us reflected.





Christmas Eve
By Carolyn Kay Armistead, 1996

The scent of pine needles, incense, and candlewax fill the air.
There is much confusion about the processional, and just who goes where.
But the night is full of magic, wonder and joy
As our Christian family prepares once again to welcome the baby boy.

The baby boy who came into a world of uncertainty and pain,
Who understands how we feel, being in Dean Willey Hall again,
And not in our beautiful Cathedral, with its comfort and sacredness.
He knows how it feels to deal with hatred's harmful effects.

Well He knows our sorrow, our impatience and our pain
And yet He makes us glad to be together, even if in the Hall again.
For He was not born in a fancy palace, or a hospital clean and grand;
But in a lowly stable, with cows, sheep and shepherds close to hand.

If He could be content with a birthplace so quiet and humble;
Who are we to be unhappy with our lot and to grumble?
After all, we are safe and still together, and together we still can sing
The same joyful song of angels, and isn't that the most important thing?