The last riddles

Dec 22.
My man that cannot be cut.

Dec 23.
Bound by age, comfort and zest,
The inquiring hand could not rest.
But given to her heart's desire,
She gave to us - our worst quagmires.
And so now we wallow in our grief,
And seeking to close the box we weep.
While famine, plague, and other woes,
Beset ourselves - and our foes.

Dec 24.
It can be said:
To be gold is to be good;
To be stone is to be nothing;
To be glass is to be fragile;
To be cold is to be cruel.
Unmetaphored, what am I?