It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

by Amelia

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It came upon a midnight clear,
that glorious song of old,
from angels bending near the earth
to touch their harps of gold:
'Peace on the earth, good will to men,
from heaven's all-gracious King!'
The world in solemn stillness lay
to hear the angels sing.

Four men of the crack ATF Team Seven stood still and quite,

hidden in the shadows of the warehouse around the floor.

Two men of team seven stood out in the open for all to see,

to create a deal so the strangers thought, but biding there time to spring there trap.

The one remaining member of the team, high above them all watching there backs,

invisible to all, their angel without wings

Still through the cloven skies they come
with peaceful wings unfurled;
and still their heavenly music floats
o'er all the weary world;
above its sad and lowly plains
they bend on hovering wing,
and ever o'er its Babel sounds
the blessed angels sing.

Muscles tight and ears straining, waiting for the sign,

eyes searching from lower and up on high is a sure find.

Hearts growing in rapid rhythm, yet breaths staying with even keys,

Seven different bodies coiled tight as springs.

Then without thought when movement is caught, a voice so soft yet explodes,

their aim dead-on in the silence in the air it rings out so bold.

But with the woes of sin and strife
the world has suffered long;
beneath the angel strain have rolled
two thousands years of wrong;
and man, at war with man, hears not
the love song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
and hear the angels sing.

And all at once where still air had laid, now action and chaos ruled in growing dust,

with those of right and just beliefs so stocked, fought hard to stop the evil in the blown up bust.

Voices raising in yells to defend, names called out to turn to duck to look out in the den.

Each shot counting each movement acknowledge from the others once by

Action of tackles and flying down from above on high, to protect their own so not to die.

For, lo! the days are hastening on,
by prophet bards foretold,
when with the ever-circling years,
comes round the age of gold,
when peace shall over all the earth
its ancient splendors fling,
and the whole world give back the song
which now the angels sing.

Here they sit the seven man team, more than friends, brothers it truly seems,

Celebrating happily together they still are, completely whole in health they beam.

The good fight was fought and thankfully one's fast action to all the world it means,

So once again they toast their angel without wings.

The End

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