In the heart of winter’s chill, beneath the starry night,
Surgeons work with steady hands, beneath the OR’s light.
In rooms where time seems to stand still, with monitors aglow,
They mend the hearts on Christmas Eve, with skills that few bestow.
With each suture, precise and sure, beneath the chest bone’s arc,
They weave the art of healing in the quiet, sacred dark.
The rhythm of the heartbeats, like a drum’s persistent sound,
Echoes through the silent night, where hope and care abound.
Outside, the world is hushed and still, in snow’s embracing sweep,
While inside, surgeons battle on, for those in slumber deep.
They’re guided not by reindeer, but by years of learned grace,
In every stitch, a wish for life, in this hallowed place.
Their hands, the tools of miracles, work on through the night,
Restoring rhythm, mending wounds, until the morning’s light.
For in this season of giving, their gift is one of heart,
A gift of time, a chance renewed, a brand new start.
So here’s to those who toil while the world is fast asleep,
Who give the gift of beating hearts, in promises they keep.
Merry Christmas to these heroes, in scrubs of blue and/or green,
For they’re the unsung Santas in the world of medicine unseen.
