Angel on my Christmas Tree,
Pretty in your lofty place,
I see you looking down at me,
I see that smile on your face.
Little Angel, how old are you?
You've been around so long;
I think it was to grandma's mom,
That you first belonged.
Then you were grandma's, then ... our mom's,
And now you belong to me;
So many Christmases you've seen,
So many Christmas Trees.
So many fingers touched you,
Your precious face and eyes;
You, so delicate and fragile,
I'm in awe you're still alive,
Do you remember long ago,
When you broke your little wing,
When dad fell off the ladder,
And dropped all the Christmas things?
We kids gasped and picked you up,
And mama ran to dad,
He laughed and said he was all right,
But your wing was broken bad.
Patiently mom mended it,
Though it was never quite the same;
I think it made me love you more,
To know one wing was maimed.
All my Christmases, but one,
You've hung upon my Tree,
That one was when the war was on,
No one at home ... just me.
Who celebrates the Holidays,
Alone ... all by oneself?
So, little Angel, you were left,
In your box atop the shelf.
But later that same Christmas Eve,
I took you from your place,
And propped you on my tabletop,
Where I could see your face.
I can't remember which year it was,
The kitten got your eye,
The rest of you were still intact,
But without your eye, I cried.
I made another eye for you,
At best, a substitute,
But if you held your head just so,
You still looked sweet and cute.
Each Christmas, I feared, would be your last,
But there you were next year,
Though marred and scarred and scratched and patched,
Each year you still were here,
You've aged with Angel dignity,
In spite of one bad wing and eye,
Those scars are your gold medals now,
As you hang on the Tree with pride.
Of all the Angels I have seen,
Of solid gold or priceless gems,
I would not trade my one of you,
For any ten of them.
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