One night the Christ Child wandered
Through forest dark and cold;
There was no hut to shelter Him.
No angel's hand to hold.
Trees were bare. Their leaves were gone.
His young eyes spied the Pine,
Whose limbs, low hanging, sheltered Him
From piercing winds' sharp whine.
Caring for the Chris Child,
The Pine wept tears of joy
Freezing to icicles as they fell
Sheltering Mary's boy.
Morning dawned sunlight's gold
In brilliance dazzling to behold.
And every Christmas icicles shine
In memory of this Holy time.
(Source poem by M. A. Putman)