A darkness covers all the earth;
the fog of war spreads near and far,
but light has come—a savior’s birth.
We see his star.

In hope we long have watched the skies:
Oh, long the nights and long the hours
when only desert met our eyes;
but hope now flowers,

and like the morning star it glows,
a promise written in the air.
Now we will take the way it shows, 
we know not where.

Though we have never seen a place
(and our imaginations cease)
where glory shines in every face
and there is peace;

where princes do not stand above
but rule by sacrifice complete,
and kneeling down in perfect love
they wash our feet;

its light is dawning bright and clear,
the morning of that far-off day.
O Prince of Peace, shine on us here
and show the way.

Incised third century A.D. sarcophagus slab depicts the Adoration of the Magi, from the Catacombs of Rome – translated as, “Severa, may you live in God”, Severa being the woman buried in the sarcophagus and likely the figure to the left of the inscription. By Giovanni Dall’Orto – Own work, Attribution, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3926530

And Mary kept all these things,  
reflecting on them in her heart.
—Luke 2:16-21

And did they stain your spotless heart,
the many things you kept
to ponder in yourself apart
whenever Jesus slept?

Did any ever cast a shade
beside the light of grace,
or stir a darkness not to fade
when you looked on his face?

O mother’s heart immaculate,
how could you hold these fears
and not find that the stains had set,
though you washed them with tears?

They must have left their mark on you—
these sorrows hit so hard—
and when the sword had pierced you through
it had to leave you scarred.

And yet it was this very thing
that kept you free from sin,
the murder of your son and king
that washed us all within.

Oh, can these fragments of the night
by him be made to gleam?
If he fills shadows with his light,
can he these scars redeem?

(Panagía tou Páthous) Virgin of the Passion by Emmanuel Tzanfournaris, early 1600s – Source, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=43296344

Let the old year be mown
with its harvest half-grown:
Not all seed comes to fruit,
nor all summers take root.
The sun and the rain
nurture sorrow and pain
with the joys of the field.
There is good in the yield,
nipped by wind and by frost,
yes, but all is not lost.
Though I lose by my toil,
yet it sleeps in the soil,
and the sower will come
to awaken what’s numb,
what lies dormant in store—
and to plant even more.
There are seeds in the ground.
Harvests yet will abound.
O you grower of all,
what seeds you let fall
are best known to you:
Let me give them their due
and tear out the weeds,
make room for your seeds.
My wastes and my fallows,
turn all to your hallows.
Through all the new years
let me water with tears
the works of your hand,
what good should now stand,
that my hand has hurt.
Send grace on this dirt.
And let me grow well
and new mercies tell
from what you began
if I of love can,
if I of love can,
if I of love can.

By Wheat by the bridleway by Steve Daniels, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=109717600

The child’s father and mother were amazed at what was said about him;
and Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother,
“Behold, this child is destined
for the fall and rise of many in Israel,
and to be a sign that will be contradicted
(and you yourself a sword will pierce)
so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.”
—Luke 2:22-35

The light that breaks upon us shall be broken
itself, its shards in darkness be consumed.
The Word that spoke us shall be counter-spoken,
in hush entombed.

And you, untouched by sin, should be untroubled:
You shall be punished, pierced through by a sword.
A mother’s heart has all its sorrows doubled:
His you will hoard.

But, Lord, my eyes have looked upon salvation,
nor have you hidden it from nation’s sight,
and I can go with no more hesitation
into the night,

for there the shards of glory shall be hidden,
and in that silence still the Word awaits
as I have waited, as I go there: bidden,
and none too late.

This child and I shall go, as we are mortal.
Our night will fall, our hungry grave will yawn,
and he shall make it speak, make night a portal
that leads to dawn!

He is the Word, the same that you’re fulfilling
in filling my arms with him.  My long nights cease.
Dismiss me now, as I have long been willing.
I go in peace.

Simeon in the Temple, by Rembrandt van Rijn, 1631 – http://www.mauritshuis.nl : Home : Info : Pic, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=157936

When the magi had departed, behold,
the angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said,
“Rise, take the child and his mother, flee to Egypt,
and stay there until I tell you.
Herod is going to search for the child to destroy him.”
Joseph rose and took the child and his mother by night
and departed for Egypt.
—Matthew 2:13-15

Once again the night is parted
like the waters of the sea
when the Israelites departed
in the pasch that set them free.

In the night a fiery pillar
shows a way where there was none
to escape the would-be killer
of the sole-begotten Son:

“Rise and take them, child and mother,
where the Nile divides the sands.
Where a Joseph saved his brothers,
save your loves from tyrant hands.”

Yet did others drown in sorrow
like a sea at Bethlehem,
and they did not see the morrow—
darker waves closed over them.

Speak, O Lord: Have you forgotten
all the children swept away
and the wails of those who lost them
in the darkest of these days?

Could your mighty arm not save them?
Yes, and greater might than this:
Christ, the firstborn of creation,
will go down to the abyss.

He will find their graves and fill then
with himself, their life to be.
He will lead these long-lost children
to their freedom through the sea.

He will send the tyrant tumbling
and the dreamer will prove right.
Lo, another Pasch is coming
that will end at last this night.

Joseph’s Dream, Rembrandt, c. 1645 – Web Gallery of Art:   Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9476806

Though I have watched a thousand nights,
a speck beneath uncounted lights
just waiting for the dawn,
I never thought to see such sights.
I still hear, “Glory in the heights,”
though years have passed and gone.

And who was I that they should come,
oh, brighter than the summer sun?
No prophet and no priest.
No one, in fact, but on the run
we left the flock to seek the one
who came to seek the least.

For well we knew him when we saw:
a shepherd lying in the straw—
as we have lain in fold
to watch and fend off tooth and claw
(not near as sharp as crown and law)—
against the bitter cold.

I knew I’d trust him with my life.
This one would stand with all our strife
to keep the wolves at bay.
So he has done, though still we strive.
I’ll see him yet, as I’m alive,
in some far peaceful day.

Fifth-century Ravenna mosaic illustrating the concept of The Good Shepherd, Photo By Gsimonov – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=167075623

The mountains sink, the valleys quake and rise
to make the tortured earth a level plain.
Above our heads the stars fall from the skies:
All things must pass, and nothing will remain.
Creation’s every inch writhes in this pain.
See, birth and dying are not separate works,
and in your advent, Lord, Good Friday lurks.

For entropy is woven in all things:
Now you are just as threadbare as the next
and lose more stitches with each hour that rings.
Like us, you bloom at prime and fade by sext,
are tried in flame by vespers, spirit vexed.
When compline comes, your clockwork will wind down.
How can a mortal man bear heaven’s crown?

You could have stayed far off, untouched by birth.
You who command the cleanliness of space
need not set foot upon this filthy earth
to save us in a million other ways.
But no, the universe shares in one grace:
The galaxies, O God, are born of dust,
and so are you now, into dying thrust.

All flesh is grass, and yet all flesh shall see
the glory you conceal within your skin—
like mine, too tender.  Yet you come to me.
Nearsighted, squinting and then leaning in
to see you clearly while the veil is thin,
I cannot shield you from the death you chose,
but for a moment, I can hold you close.

This unusually large ivory carving, its shape corresponding to the shape of a tusk, shows the Christ Child embracing his mother in a pose of tender intimacy. It is one of the earliest examples of what in later Byzantine times was called Eleousa, or “Virgin of Tenderness.” The relief was likely to have been used for private devotion, in either a monastic or domestic setting, as an icon (Greek for “image”). Especially striking and typical of the early medieval period in Christian Egypt are the Virgin’s large head, fixed gaze, and angular drapery. By Anonymous (Coptic artist)Anonymous (Byzantine artist) – Walters Art Museum: Home page  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18794368

When morning comes, the dawning of his day,
each soul we see shall magnify the Lord,
his light that drives their shadows all away,
his face, reflected in each eye, adored.

And age on age, and year on year at last
all we who lived in every day gone by
shall know his mercy in our lives gone past,
shall see where he was always drawing nigh.

For even now he’s lifting up the poor,
and when the mighty fall it’s by his hand.
The satisfied he’s turning from his door,
but when they hunger, what will he not grant?

He never once forgot the ancient vow
he made our parents in the hour they fell.
The mercy yet to come is with us now;
within our night, his day: Emmanuel.

Venus, pictured centre-right, is always brighter than all other planets or stars at their maximal brightness, as seen from Earth. Jupiter is visible at the top of the image. By Brocken Inaglory – File:Venus with reflection.jpg, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5223759

Sing out new songs to Christ the Lord
who comes, the captive setting free:
He stills the noise of all who warred
and claims himself the victory.

We hear it now: The tempest drums,
the rivers rise and clap their hands.
The mountains shout for joy: He comes
with justice for the wide-flung lands!

His mighty arm, his holy hand,
that showed his love in days gone past
in linen shroud or swaddling band,
reveal his triumph at the last,

and we shall see him in the flesh.
Indeed, our vindicator lives
and we will see him for ourselves—
and we shall know the joy he gives.

Our hands that clasped, our eyes that wept
shall know him as he dries our tears
and wakes the ones who long have slept
to see the crowning of the years.

The mercy promised long ago
he brings at last and breaks the sword.
His love he has remembered so,
ring out your song to praise the Lord!

Drum of Company B, 40th New York Infantry Regiment, at the Battle of Gettysburg, 1863 By NPS – https://www.nps.gov/museum/treasures/html/D/gett32847.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=836223

At your great name, O Jesus, then
all knees must bend, all hearts must bow
and tremble when you come again—
We hear the trumpets even now.

Disaster on disaster comes;
one trumpet, then another sounds.
In echo all creation thrums
with cry of hawks and bay of hounds.

One trumpet and another—Yes,
in Zion sounds the call to fast,
to beg you, Lord, relent and bless
when sorrows all are gone and past.

For they will pass, the echoes still, 
and all creation be made new.
Your hand shall all the hungry fill,
the lowly all with might imbue.

And then the trumpet we shall hear—
no battle cry or charge of doom—
to celebrate the end of fear,
the emptying of every tomb.

And at your name, the angels praise,
and every joyous heart shall bow
and join the song for endless days—
We hear the trumpets even now.

Baptistery of San Giovanni, Florence. Dome mosaic. Ceiling center (oldest sections). Photo By Ricardo André Frantz (User:Tetraktys) – CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2267968