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

This is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about.
When his mother Mary was betrothed to Joseph,
but before they lived together,
she was found with child through the Holy Spirit.
Joseph her husband, since he was a righteous man,
yet unwilling to expose her to shame,
decided to divorce her quietly.
Such was his intention when, behold,
the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said,
“Joseph, son of David,
do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home.
For it is through the Holy Spirit
that this child has been conceived in her.
She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus,
because he will save his people from their sins.”
All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet:
Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel,
which means “God is with us.”
When Joseph awoke,
he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him
and took his wife into his home.
—Matthew 1:18-24

And what then overshadowed you,
what sorrow at her word?
Yet from its darkness, ringing true,
another voice you heard:

“O righteous man, be not afraid:
This child within her grown
was by the Holy Spirit placed;
his place is David’s throne.”

So deeper than the ring of words,
yet scribed for all to see,
you echoed Mary in your works:
“Let it be done to me.”

For something more than righteousness,
O Joseph, you conceived,
a love beyond the law to bless
the love that you received.

In silence, then, you took her in
to wait the child to come,
and ever after you have been
in wonder stricken dumb.

Then pray for us without a word
that we may welcome him
and hear the infant cry you heard
that night in Bethlehem.

Federico Barocci – Saint Joseph – Livre De la Renaissance à l’Âge baroque : une collection de dessins italiens pour les musées de France. Exposition présentée au Musée du Louvre, salle de la Chapelle, du 8 juin au 29 août 2005. Paris : Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2005. ISBN 9782711849758, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8315055

The day—that day—is coming
when all shall be restored;
the war drums end their drumming;
and we shall see the Lord.

The mountain of his temple
shall rise upon that day.
The nations will turn gentle, 
and each to each will say,

“Come, let us climb the mountain
to walk the paths of God,
to drink from wisdom’s fountain
and live beneath his rod.

“Come, let us seek the house where
the Lord will teach us peace.
We’ll bend our swords to plowshares,
and all our wars will cease.”

And, oh, they shall come leaping,
like stags upon the hills,
where there is no more weeping
and wine runs down in rills,

to break and eat together
the bread that is true wealth.
Oh, may we walk there ever,
and drink each other’s health!

Illustration of “Twelve Lords a Leaping”, from Mirth Without Mischief – Anonymous (c. 1800) Mirth without mischief Comtaining [sic The twelve days of Christmas; The play of the gaping-wide-mouthed-wadling-frog; Love and hatred; … and Nimble Ned’s alphabet and figures], London: C. Sheppard, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=113601470

You visited us once before
to pardon us our sin.
Come once again, O Lord; restore,
and let new life begin!

So Mary and Elizabeth,
each in her time of bliss,
as Truth and sister Kindness, met;
as Peace and Justice, kissed.

As Justice looking down from high,
Faith springing from the earth,
the glory of your drawing nigh
was in their children’s birth.

We looked upon your mercy, then;
salvation we received.
Let every tongue cry out again:
Blest are you who believed!

And cry out still, who wait your day,
salvation drawing near,
when Justice in the van makes way
and Right precedes you here.

We’ll dance our joy to see you come
as John within the womb.
When Peace strikes up the pipe and drum,
we’ll dance out of the tomb!

Deodato Orlandi, 1300–10, scene from the Life of John the Baptist (Gemäldegalerie, Berlin) Photo By Sailko – Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=40949973

The little crèche I’ve already set up,
and hidden Jesus on the kitchen shelf,
the waiting manger empty as a cup
that he will fill at Christmas with himself.
Today, though, is an ordinary day
that needs caffeine, the ordinary way.

I set my cup out, kettle about to boil,
and fish around in the clutter—now it sings—
to find the teabags.  There, in all the coil,
the child appears, a thing among the things.
I glance but do not see him—then I do,
with teabags, flashlights, junk hullaballoo.

The naked porcelain’s incongruous:
I see him, and the junk and I transform.
He builds a stable from my daily fuss
and comes a beggar unto beggars born,
an animal among the animals.
I worship, making tea here in the stalls.

My kitchen shelf, photo by me.

We know the Bridegroom’s coming soon:
Each night we wait the same.
Through midnight, dawn, and even noon,
we keep the lamps aflame.

So we have waited year by year.
But all we’d laid in store,
it could not wait ‘til he came near.
We ate, and lay in more.

And every day we do our work—
or not, as it may be—
but if we labor, if we shirk,
we know that he will see,

for he has given each a task,
to see to it without fail
that there is oil to fill the flask
and milk to fill the pail.

So year by year we keep the feast;
and year by year we fast;
and someday we will be released,
for he will come at last.

Yes, he will come—of that be sure—
and then it is too late
to lay another feast in store
when he is at the gate.

But then real feasting will begin,
with fasting ever gone.
He’ll douse the lamps and lead us in
where it is ever dawn.

Three wise virgins appear with Christ on Strasbourg Cathedral. Photo By Rebecca Kennison – Own work, CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1638388