Advent to Candlemas (Vol. 3)


The child whom Eden's children cried
For cries upon his bed of straw,
Who sought redemption in a king
But he is poorer than the poor:
Her smile, unequal to the wind,
Is torn to tatters of despair,
Outcasts subjected to the dawn
Of struggle sacrifice and care.

Ephratha sleeps beneath the star
Oblivious to the answered call,
While shepherds, outcasts, with their sheep
Are called to worship at a stall:
The angel chorus tears the sky,
With words no prophet e'er foretold,
And kings from lands undreamed before
Bring myrrh and frankincense and gold.

I sit alone, my own child dead,
Taken to Him who came for me;
And wonder at the words He said
Of good news for the poor like me:
And then I see his mother's face,
Tormented, as she starts to cry;
And know, like me, she sees him dead,
And cannot help but wonder why.

A candle flickers in my gloom,
Then bursts into ethereal light
And as my darkness dissipates
I kneel to share this holy night:
For me and my dead son are His
As she and all are his to keep
Forever, and I see her smile,
And sing her sacred child to sleep.