I had come down the chimney with presents to give
And to see who in this house did live.

I looked all about, a strange sight did I see,
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

No stockings by the mantle, just boots filled with sand,
On the wall hung pictures of far distand lands.

With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
A sober thought came through my mind.

For this house was different, it was dark and dreary.
I found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly.

The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in this one bedroom home.

The face was so gentle, the room in such disorder,
Not how I pictured a United States soldier.

Was this the hero of whom I'd just read?
Curled up in a poncho, the floor for a bed?

I realized the families that I saw this night
Owed their lives to these soldiers who were willing to fight.

Soon round the world, the children would play,
And grownups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.

They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year
Because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone
On a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home.

The very thought brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees and started to cry.

The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,
"Santa don't cry, this life is my choice;

I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more,
My life is my god, my country, my Corps."

The soldier rolled over and drifted to sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours, so silent and still
And we both shivered from the cold night's chill.

I didn't want to leave on that cold, dark night
This guardian of honor so willing to fight.

Then the soldier rolled over, with a voice soft and pure,
Whispered "Carry on, Santa, It's Christmas, all is secure."

It is the soldier, not the reporter,
Who gives us freedom of the press.

It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
Who gives us freedom to protest.