I'm not at all sure this is what was wanted, but it does have a Christmas theme. It was presented as a poem, not a song, and printed in a rather bizarre ornate type font that was difficult to read, so there might be some typos.

From The Young Woman's Journal, Vol. 11, No. 12 (Salt Lake City, Utah: Young Women's Mutual Improvement Association of Zion, December, 1900), page 536:


A VIOLET IN THE SNOW
John A. Widtsoe

With a sighing surge of the northern blast
The snow was stirred into eddying clouds,
And an ice-cold moon gleamed through, on the crowd
That hurried and jostled upon the road.
Chilled with the cold, and oppressed by my load,
I faintingly whispered, "Can this be the earth
As it was at the first and will be at the last?
Are men ever careless of all save their own?
Do the storms always rage? Shall I walk e'er alone
As today, on the eve of the Christ-child's birth?
I would rather, O Lord, that life was passed."

In answer I heard the sharp wind blow
A moan through the moon-lit, snow-weighted trees,
And my heart grew silent, I longed for peace
In a narrowed bed, far under the frost.
"Look, then, your last," I said, "who have lost
In the battle of winter your aim." And I saw,
By my side—a violet lost in the snow,
A violet, dropped by an angel, I know,
Bearing sun-laden hopes, and aglow
With the spirit and life of the Spring: this I saw.
I kept it—the violet found in the snow.

I knew of a heart that, bared to the breath
Of a storm of fierce passions and love of fame,
Had forgotten the faith and the truth that came
With the Master of Galilee: such a heart!
That was weary of men, and dwelt apart
And looked with contempt on the pleasures of life,
And thought itself happy in sighing for death.
To this frozen heart there came like a song
A woman's low whisper: "Your fancy is wrong;
All is well; men are right, and springtime is rife
With bird-song and violets; life out of death."

When the chill of the winter was lost in the glow
Of the love of a woman, and life was filled
With the hopes of a love-rich future, that thrilled
All the strength of the nature that sighed. And long
My I hear in my life the clear echoes of song:
All is well; men are right; after snow cometh spring.
Restful peace, new truth, and true love may they bring.
What care I for the babble of angry weather
If the frost-king rules, or the north winds blow.
We will face the cold and the winds together,
I, and my violet found in the snow.