In Imitation of Scrooge the Latter

At the end of Charles Dickens' classic A Christmas Carol, the infamous Ebenezer Scrooge drops to his knees before the dread Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come and says these famous words:
"I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me!"

Honoring that sentiment, you cannot hold it against me that I am posting a Christmas poem after Christmas has passed.

I started writing this Christmas Eve and forgot about it until New Year's Eve, when I saw the first four lines in my notebook and picked up a pen. It's not much, though it's long, but this is my bully pulpit, and I intend to take full advantage.

Morning light upon a hill
Where sheep yet slumber, lying still
No sign to mark the place where they
(Whose gentle calls the sheep obey)
Were lately held captive in fear
At wondrous things which they did hear
That echoed from the gloomy night
'Midst beacons of celestial light.

'Twas so at midnight-- shepherds fled
And cowered, and bowed down their heads
Before a roseate, hovering choir
Whose words were full of spoken fire.
A voice that so inspired sang
That through the rustics' hearts it rang
To leave the flocks and seek a child
Just born, within a stable wild.
No place to lay a newborn babe,
A hay-piled manger in a cave,
Exposed to each chilly draft
Despite a tender mother's craft.

Each man arose, for to each heart
The angel's song flew, like a dart,
And pierced them through, and so they came
Just stopping to put torch to flame.
Then hurrying through the sleeping street
They sped along on eager feet
Til reached the hillside bed where He,
Enguerdon of Eternity,
Lay swaddled in His mother's arms,
Sleep undisturbed by such alarms.

And this why they had come so far?
For this the host sang 'neath the stars?
A peasant couple's baby boy
No words of wisdom, shouts of joy;
And yet the shepherds doubted not
This little one the Lord they sought.

The rising sun climbs higher now
And rests upon the craggy brow
Of distant mountains, waking all
Inhabitants of house and stall.
And there upon the path appear
The truants, slowly drawing near
Content to wield a shepherd's rod
For they had seen the face of God.

There are parts I love and parts I want to burn and destroy, but this is it, such as it is. Anyway, critique away, please; it stings, but it's good for me.