Hope
Treading the broken way with care,
Scanning for a smoking flare,
Even the checkpoint seems welcoming,
Though hardly fitting for a king!
For Winter is more sour than sharp
As canker creeps and door frames warp;
A Chronic Mildew in the manger,
Laid out of danger into danger:
And then the sky explodes in blaze
Of light to frighten and amaze;
And rumours of good news confound
Those who would keep their feet upon the ground.
Then shepherds with the gift of speech
Spout like the prophets to a screech,
As sneers of ridicule deny
The message that the angels,
Yes, the angels
Poured down from the sky!
And in the game of holy chess,
The crib in all its wholesomeness,
I try to sink to where He lay,
On prickling and sodden hay:
For if there is no thought to grieve,
I hardly think I could believe,
Humility being all I crave,
And hope beyond my unkept grave.