In The Bleak Midwinter

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow has fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter,
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Throng’d the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,—
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

Christina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)

Evasive Measures

You were telling him about Buddha,
you were telling him about Mohammed in the same breath
You never mentioned one time the Man who came
and died a criminal’s death.
Bob Dylan: Precious Angel

If Christ and His gospel are offered you

you squirm — then dredge up the gods of the East.

Your act of avoidance is nothing new;

salvation proposed: evasion increased.

Waxing socialistic (as if on cue)

your blustering is consistent, at least.

you brandish your point of antichrist view,

descending like Darwin: angel to beast.

In Babylon’s gardens you disembark

to deconstruct Noah, the flood, the ark.

On Gilgamesh, Enkidu, in madness

you ramble — and it fills me with sadness.

There is one truth, undiscerned, unadored.

Be still. In silence, acknowledge your Lord.

Drowning vs. Dead


It’s not  being given a lifeline at last;
bobbing in the swell, latching onto hope,
grateful the well-meaning rescue ship passed,
half-dead, but floating when they threw the rope.
It’s a different scenario—more vast
more madly stupendous, worthy of awe.
It’s a cosmic miracle unsurpassed:
completely defying your grasp: love’s law.
You were dead on the seafloor, waterlogged.
Crabs had drawn near as you rolled in the weeds.
Your heart was long cold, every chamber clogged;
the scavengers tearing where darkness feeds.
The first metaphor can be misconstrued
when God hauls you up, alive and renewed.