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

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