It be Christmas there beyond them woods

Something a little different...

It be Christmas there beyond them woods, where those men gather, with them big black hoods.

Their hands folded, they shuffle along in double file, to take their seats in silence to contemplate awhile.

Chanting haunting tunes that soar over the trees and yonder, their voices hang in the sky, in a man’s slumber they can make him cry.

Inside their tall dark building, their candles light the way, to the altar where they worship and offer the God-man, once laid as a babe in hay.

They say He came many moons ago, to save peoples from Lucifer’s snare, as long as they follow His path, they will forever hear the angels’ prayer.

I heard this all from a man I knew, he left this land to spread the God-man’s word and paid with his head, but his companions say he got his eternal due.

One day I may travel over and see them hooded men for myself, and try to find out why they believe that in death they will find wealth.

It be Christmas there beyond them woods, where those men gather with them big black hoods.