Conversion at the Crèche: A Poem for the Unfinished Soul

The story of the
Birth is read, the
Babe placed in the
Manger.
Smiling on the
Mother-girl, who gave
Him to a fallen world,
I ask if I might hold her
Son, her little
One, the
Savior.

She gives a gracious
Yes.
It’s Christmas
Eve.
Cradle
His head and place
His body on your
Breast. He is a
Perfect little
Lamb, at
Rest in the
Crook
Of my own arm.

I lean to kiss
His cheek and
Stop.
I’ve kissed it
Once before.
I am the
Traitor in the
Garden,
Selling the
Sacred
Son for
Silver and a
Song.

Struck
Silent,
I bid Bethl’em’s
Babe good
Night,
Seeking the
Woman
Standing at
His
Cross.
Her
Love is as
Strong as
Death.

Reads & Other Seeds

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Choose Something Like a Star: A Christmas Contemplation

Art: Lorenzo Monaco Geburt Christi, Courtesty of Wikimedia Commons.