Once there was a house, and in that house there was a room.
The room contained five chairs and a geranium in bloom.
A woman in dark glasses occupied the nearest chair.
Close by there sat a fellow crowned with wild curly hair.
A second man sat snoring, leaning on the windowsill.
Beside him was a lady who kept absolutely still.
The last chair held a gentleman, and he was fairly fat.
The five chairs held five people, and in those five chairs they sat.
It came without a warning. It was silent. It was swift.
In the lap of every person there appeared a sudden gift,
A square box in white paper. And each box looked just the same:
Each tied in bright red ribbon; each marked with each one’s name.
How did the boxes get there? Not one of them knew how.
But all the tags tied to them said to “Open this right now!”
Five presents freely given! Five presents decked in red!
Five people looked upon their gifts, and this is what they said.
“What is it?” wept the first one, as great fear consumed her mind.
“I hate it, I can’t see it”—and she couldn’t. She was blind.
“Begone!” declared the next one. “Gifts are foul. Gifts are bad.
Gifts are evil!” and he smashed it. It’s no wonder; he was mad.
The snoozing snoring fellow didn’t smash and didn’t weep.
He didn’t even see it. And how could he, sound asleep?
The still and quiet lady was just as unmoved as him,
The reason being, she was paralyzed in every limb.
Which leaves us with the fat man. He took a look around.
He didn’t touch his present, for he couldn’t. He was bound.
“Release me,” he said softly. “I would like to open mine.”
The others may have heard him; if they did, they gave no sign.
Five people sat together and together sat alone.
The sleeper kept on sleeping, the blind let out a moan,
The mad one raved and shouted, the bound one still implored
For help, but it was just no use. The presents were ignored.
And then a big thing happened. Something cracked the windowpane.
A screeching rushing howling wind careened in like a train.
It whirled up to the ceiling. It crashed upon the floor.
It turned the room right upside-down and blew straight out the door.
And then the storm was over—just a minute, if not less,
From arrival to departure. But it made a real mess.
Red ribbon and white paper lay in small bits everywhere.
The wind had torn each present and let loose what lay in there.
From one box shone a piercing light. It flashed out brilliantly.
It sought the blind one’s eyes, and when it found them, she could see.
A second box played music: sweet, enchanting, quiet, smooth.
It calmed the frantic madman where all else had failed to soothe.
A cloud burst from another box and it began to soak
The sleeper with its gentle rain; and he, refreshed, awoke.
The fourth box shot out lightning while relentless thunder roared.
It struck the paralytic, and at once she was restored.
“And your box?” said the madman to the one still in his chair.
“I think it might be scissors; yes, a lovely golden pair.”
“An odd gift,” said the woken one, “or so it seems to me.
To use or even reach them, you already must be free.”
“You can’t reach,” said the newly-standing lady, “but I can!”
She snipped and clipped away at every bond that held the man.
Then he who’d been a captive shook himself and finally stood
In freedom and in happiness. And it felt really good.
“I’ve never known a house to give out gifts like this before,”
The sighted lady said, “and I sure hope there will be more!”
“Well, one’s enough for me,” confessed the madman. “One will do,
Though Uncle, Mom, and Little Sis could use some presents too.”
“No more for us, I think; they’ll go to someone else instead,”
Opined the woken one. The fat man nodded and he said,
“We’d better spread the word to all our friends, then, just in case.”
So they dispersed and told the world about that wondrous place.
(Words and image by Sarah Hinlicky Wilson. This is obviously a theological poem, but I’ll resist the urge to interpret it for you too much. Just one hint: I wrote it when I figured out that the Second Article of the Creed is no good without the Third.)