As a special feature this Christmas Eve, since it falls right on our scheduled Saturday, a few of us wrote some poems for Christmas,
Without Christmas (E. Antony Gray)
Cold is the world without Christmas
Cold as a sky with no star;
Where winter, comes with no solstice
No sun comes back from afar.
Dark as a cave with no lantern
Dark as the depths of a tomb
Lost as a forsaken phantom
A spirit forlorn from the womb;
As the world is lost without justice
And cannot bear long without fear
When the world waited for Christmas
For naught should its hope now appear?
For truth it sought out the daylight
For nobility sought out the sun
Is all that remains just the firelight
Where yet is our promised One?
Forever believing in mystery
Forever for courage in trial
As kings would always be whispering
As paupers now walking that mile;
Christmas is the truth of our journey
To take heart and follow a Star
A truth but slowly we’re learning
Mere time cannot heal the scar;
Mere hope cannot make the world better
Mere faith cannot move that great stone
Mere love cannot shatter the fetter
That set us to wander alone;
What cannot be may perhaps happen
As once it did long long ago
But can we remember the reason
Was it something we did never know?
A light in a cave on the solstice
A path tired and well-trod–
But the Light in that cave on Christmas
Is not a mere star but true God.
Watch (William Scott)
“What I say to you, I say unto all . . .”,
But wait, you are not yet born, (or you are?)
I will, but cannot promise but to fail;
I am more vicious even than Peter.
The beast ambles, bearing woman with child;
Logos held mysteriously in the belly.
Truer than wombs which bore her all this while;
Holding fragile, this uncertain eternity.
The man leading by rope with knotted gut,
Aporetic how this Word of God will—
His prayer fretful-constant, watching as a scout—
Speak forth in warmed comfort, or in the open air.
The priest bears the chalkware doll lovingly.
From the altar through we congregants,
To the feed box in the crèche, go slowly
The train; thurifer, crucifer, and priests.
Pew to narthex, in haste I hope to see,
Altar to cradle, incarnation’s flash;
Gifting, through this time-tattered doll, Mystery.
Under the aspergillum’s chill, I Watch.
And, for your appreciation, a poem about Christmas Trees by Robert Frost. Merry Christmas!