I am unused, unspotted without blemish

I stretch before you three hundred and sixty-five days long.   I will present each day in its turn, a new leaf in the Book of Life, for you to place upon it your imprint

It remains for you to make me what you will: if you write with firm, steady strokes, my pages will be a joy to look upon when the next New Year comes. If pen falters, if uncertainty, doubt or sin mar pages, it will become a day to remember with pain

I am the New Year  During each Hour of three-hundered-sixty-five days, I will give you sixty minutes that have never known the use of man, pure, I present them; it remains for you to fill them with sixty jewelled seconds of love, hope, endeavour, patience and trust in God

I am the new Year; I am here but once past, I can never be recalled