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10 Beautiful Christian Christmas Poems About Jesus

In this post, we will explore Christian Christmas poems about Jesus that you can enjoy during the holiday season.

Christmas is a time when Christians around the world celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. It is a time for reflection, joy, and giving thanks. This year, why not take some time to read through some beautiful religious Christmas poems that celebrate the true meaning of Christmas? These poems will inspire you to reflect on the gift of Jesus Christ, and to rejoice in His amazing love.

Christmas time has always been a special time for me since it was the time I came to the Lord when I was 15 years old. I truly learned the meaning of Christmas and saw everything in a new light. I love these poems because they bring it all back to Jesus! No santa,no reindeer, no elves…all about the King of Kings!

Christian Christmas Poems

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Christian Christmas Poems

In this collection of Christian Christmas poems, we have a little mix of modern poems and some classic ones as well. The newer poems won’t have the author’s years next to them. My goal is that all these poems would give the true meaning of Christmas. I hope you enjoy them and that they work well for Christmas cards, gifts, or to share at an event or party.

If you would like to check out a poem that has Christmas and Easter in it click here: The Sand Dollar Story

On Christmas Day

Melissa Tumino

A small babe within a manager lay
The hope of all nations was born on Christmas day

A King in swaddling clothes 
Here to heal the world of it's woes

Oh, how great is Christmas day
That my wandering heart no longer strays

I found my peace in Him alone
The babe who now sits on a throne

God's Son brought to all
So, that He could restore us from the fall

Praise and glory to the King
Let the angels rejoice and shepherds play their string

For a small babe within a manager lay
The hope of all nations was born on Christmas day
Christian christmas poems about Jesus for adults

Let Us Rejoice


Let us rejoice on this day
The birth of our Savior Jesus Christ
He came to save us from our sin
And bring us everlasting life

Now let us all lift up our voice
In joyous praise and adoration
For on this day a King was born
Who will rule with love and compassion!

A day for peace and love to reign
And may it be a reminder to us
Of the joy that Jesus brings!

Christmas Giving

Iris W. Bray

Christmas is for giving
And for showing that we care,
For honouring the Christ Child
With the loving gifts we share

The wise men gave of riches;
The shepherds, faith and love.
Each gift, in its own measure,
Was smiled on from above.

Let every gift be treasured;
Not always size or price
Determines the extent of love
And willing sacrifice.

Handsome gifts with festive trim
Brings smiles of sweet content,
But modest gifts of humble means
Are ofttimes heaven sent.

Whether it be large or small
Each gift will share in part
The message of true Christmas joy
If given from the heart!

The True Meaning Of Christmas

Brian K. Walters

In today's' day and time,
It's easy to lose sight,
Of the true meaning of Christmas
And one special night.

When we go shopping,
We say 'How much will it cost? '
Then the true meaning of Christmas,
Somehow becomes lost.

Amidst the tinsel, glitter
And ribbons of gold,
We forget about the child,
Born on a night so cold.

The children look for Santa
In his big, red sleigh
Never thinking of the child
Whose bed was made of hay?

In reality,
When we look into the night sky,
We don't see a sleigh
But a star, burning bright and high.

A faithful reminder,
Of that night so long ago,
And of the child we call Jesus,
Whose love, the world would know.

(Poem Source)

A Christmas Carol Poem

Gilbert Keith Chesterton 1874 – 1936

The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.) 

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)

The Christ-child stood on Mary's knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down

Christmas Eve

Christina Rossetti 1830 – 1894

Christmas has a darkness
Brighter than the blazing noon,
Christmas has a chillness
Warmer than the heat of June,
Christmas has a beauty
Lovelier than the world can show:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
Brought for us so low.

Earth, strike up your music,
Birds that sing and bells that ring;
Heaven has answering music
For all angels soon to sing:
Earth, put on your whitest
Bridal robe of spotless snow:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
Brought for us so low.
The true meaning of christmas poem - Christmas Eve

The Holy Night

Elizabeth Barrett Browning  1806-1861

	We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;
	The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
	    Softened their horned faces
	    To almost human gazes
	    Toward the newly Born:
	The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
	    Brought their visionary looks,
	As yet in their astonied hearing rung
	    The strange sweet angel-tonge:
	The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
	    Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
	    With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,
	    The incense, myrrh, and gold
	These baby hands were impotent to hold:
	So let all earthlies and celestials wait
	    Upon thy royal state.
	    Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

Nativity, a Christmas Poem

John Donne 1572–1631

      Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
	Now leaves His well-belov’d imprisonment,
	There He hath made Himself to His intent
	Weak enough, now into the world to come;
	But O, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room?
	Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient,
	Stars and wise men will travel to prevent
	The effect of Herod’s jealous general doom.
	Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith’s eyes, how He
	Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?
	Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,
	That would have need to be pitied by thee?
	Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
	With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.

Christmas Bells

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807–1882

      I heard the bells on Christmas Day
	Their old, familiar carols play,
	    And wild and sweet
	    The words repeat
	Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
	And thought how, as the day had come,
	The belfries of all Christendom
	    Had rolled along
	    The unbroken song
	Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
	Till ringing, singing on its way,
	The world revolved from night to day,
	    A voice, a chime,
	    A chant sublime
	Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
	Then from each black, accursed mouth
	The cannon thundered in the South,
	    And with the sound
	    The carols drowned
	Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
	It was as if an earthquake rent
	The hearth-stones of a continent,
	    And made forlorn
	    The households born
	Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
	And in despair I bowed my head;
	“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
	    “For hate is strong,
	    And mocks the song
	Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
	Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
	“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
	    The Wrong shall fail,
	    The Right prevail,
	With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity

John Milton 1608–1674


This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven’s eternal King,
Of wedded maid and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
	And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

	That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
	And that far-beaming blaze ozaf majesty,
	Wherewith he wont at Heaven’s high council-table
	To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
	He laid aside, and, here with us to be,
	  Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day,
	And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

	Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
	Afford a present to the Infant God?
	Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
	To welcome him to this his new abode,
	Now while the heaven, by the Sun’s team untrod,
	  Hath took no print of the approaching light,
	And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

	See how from far upon the Eastern road
	The star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet!
	Oh! run; prevent them with thy humble ode,
	And lay it lowly at his blessèd feet;
	Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
	  And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire,
	From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

The Hymn


	    It was the winter wild,
	     While the heaven-born child
	   All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
	      Nature, in awe to him,
	      Had doffed her gaudy trim,
	  With her great Master so to sympathize:
	It was no season then for her
	To wanton with the Sun, her lusty Paramour.

	    Only with speeches fair
	    She woos the gentle air
	  To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,
	    And on her naked shame,
	    Pollute with sinful blame,
	  The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
	Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes
	Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

	    But he, her fears to cease,
	    Sent down the meek-eyed Peace:
	  She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding
	    Down through the turning sphere,
	    His ready Harbinger,
	  With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
	And, waving wide her myrtle wand,
	She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

	    No war, or battail’s sound,
	    Was heard the world around;
	  The idle spear and shield were high uphung;
	    The hookèd chariot stood,
	    Unstained with hostile blood;
	  The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;
	And Kings sat still with awful eye,
	As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

	    But peaceful was the night
	    Wherein the Prince of Light
	  His reign of peace upon the earth began.
	    The winds, with wonder whist,
	    Smoothly the waters kissed,
	  Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,
	Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
	While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

	    The stars, with deep amaze,
	    Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,
	  Bending one way their precious influence,
	    And will not take their flight,
	    For all the morning light,
	  Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;
	But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
	Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

	    And, though the shady gloom
	    Had given day her room,
	  The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
	    And hid his head of shame,
	    As his inferior flame
	  The new-enlightened world no more should need:
	He saw a greater Sun appear
	Than his bright Throne or burning axletree could bear.

	    The Shepherds on the lawn,
	    Or ere the point of dawn,
	  Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
	    Full little thought they than
	    That the mighty Pan
	  Was kindly come to live with them below:
	Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,
	Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

	    When such music sweet
	    Their hearts and ears did greet
	  As never was by mortal finger strook,
	    Divinely-warbled voice
	    Answering the stringèd noise,
	  As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
	The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
	With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

	    Nature, that heard such sound
	    Beneath the hollow round
	  Of Cynthia’s seat the airy Region thrilling,
	    Now was almost won
	    To think her part was done,
	  And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:
	She knew such harmony alone
	Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

	    At last surrounds their sight
	    A globe of circular light,
	  That with long beams the shamefaced Night arrayed;
	    The helmèd Cherubim
	    And sworded Seraphim
	  Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,
	Harping in loud and solemn quire,
	With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s newborn Heir.

	    Such music (as ’tis said)
	    Before was never made,
	  But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,
	    While the Creator great
	    His constellations set,
	  And the well-balanced World on hinges hung,
	And cast the dark foundations deep,
	And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

	    Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
	    Once bless our human ears,
	  If ye have power to touch our senses so;
	    And let your silver chime
	    Move in melodious time;
	  And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow;
	And with your ninefold harmony
	Make up full consort of the angelic symphony.

	    For, if such holy song
	    Enwrap our fancy long,
	  Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold;
	    And speckled Vanity
	    Will sicken soon and die,
	  And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;
	And Hell itself will pass away,
	And leave her dolorous mansions of the peering day.

	    Yes, Truth and Justice then
	    Will down return to men,
	  The enamelled arras of the rainbow wearing;
	    And Mercy set between,
	    Throned in celestial sheen,
	  With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
	And Heaven, as at some festival,
	Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

	    But wisest Fate says No,
	    This must not yet be so;
	  The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy
	    That on the bitter cross
	    Must redeem our loss,
	  So both himself and us to glorify:
	Yet first, to those chained in sleep,
	The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,

	    With such a horrid clang
	    As on Mount Sinai rang,
	  While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
	    The aged Earth, aghast
	    With terror of that blast,
	  Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
	When, at the world’s last sessiön,
	The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

	    And then at last our bliss
	    Full and perfect is,
	  But now begins; for from this happy day
	    The Old Dragon under ground,
	    In straiter limits bound,
	  Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,
	And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,
	Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

	    The Oracles are dumb;
	    No voice or hideous hum
	  Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving.
	    Apollo from his shrine
	    Can no more divine,
	  Will hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
	No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,
	Inspires the pale-eyed Priest from the prophetic cell.

	    The lonely mountains o’er,
	    And the resounding shore,
	  A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
	    Edgèd with poplar pale,
	    From haunted spring, and dale
	  The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
	With flower-inwoven tresses torn
	The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

	    In consecrated earth,
	    And on the holy hearth,
	  The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;
	    In urns, and altars round,
	    A drear and dying sound
	  Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
	And the chill marble seems to sweat,
	While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.

	    Peor and Baälim
	    Forsake their temples dim,
	  With that twice-battered god of Palestine;
	    And moon&egraved Ashtaroth,
	    Heaven’s Queen and Mother both,
	  Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine:
	The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;
	In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

	    And sullen Moloch, fled,
	    Hath left in shadows dread
	  His burning idol all of blackest hue;
	    In vain with cymbals’ ring
	    They call the grisly king,
	  In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
	The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
	Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

	    Nor is Osiris seen
	    In Memphian grove or green,
	  Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;
	    Nor can he be at rest
	    Within his sacred chest;
	  Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;
	In vain, with timbreled anthems dark,
	The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.

	    He feels from Juda’s land
	    The dreaded Infant’s hand;
	  The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
	    Nor all the gods beside
	    Longer dare abide,
	  Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
	Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,
	Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.

	    So, when the Sun in bed,
	    Curtained with cloudy red,
	  Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
	    The flocking shadows pale
	    Troop to the infernal jail,
	  Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,
	And the yellow-skirted Fays
	Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

	    But see! the Virgin blest
	    Hath laid her Babe to rest,
	  Time is our tedious song should here have ending:
	    Heaven’s youngest-teemèd star
	    Hath fixed her polished car,
	  Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;
	And all about the courtly stable
	Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.

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