There was a dove in the apple tree,
with a low, low, my love, my love,
among the green boughs, sweet to see,
and sweet he sang upon the ear,
but Eve and Adam could not hear,
with a low.

For Adam ate as Eve had bid,
with a low, low, my love, my love,
and from the Father then they hid.
For Eve had eaten at a word—
not dove but serpent she had heard,
with a low.

And now the dove weeps all the day
with a low, low, my love, my love,
for all Eve’s children, welaway!
The tears he weeps, they fall as rain
for bitter sorrow, bitter pain,
with a low.

But he will cast his feathers down
with a low, low, my love, my love,
and weave himself a briar crown,
will lose his song and still his flight
and fall to earth in dead of night,
with a low.

Then helpless as a child and weak
with a low, low, my love, my love,
to one bright maiden shall he speak,
and she, Eve’s daughter, she will hear
and let the poor, plucked dove draw near,
with a low.

She’ll shelter him beneath her breast
with a low, low, my love, my love,
and for her kindness we’ll be blest.
Soon Eve and Adam, they will see
the sweetest fruit of the apple tree,
with a low.

Title page from the first known publication of “The 12 days of Christmas” – Anonymous (1780). Mirth without Mischief. London: Printed by J. Davenport, George’s Court, for C. Sheppard, no. 8, Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell. pp. 5–16., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30411330

And in a moment, everything is changed
from then to now, a faultline riving time
as all the world she knows is rearranged.
As if she hears a far-off cymbal chime

and lifts her eyes and sees the world made new,
her deep-cut eyes, and sees a world beyond
the daily shadows she is used to view
where light we long for has already dawned.

Her image, funerary monument:
Is death the gate through which the angels come?
A meaning far from what her parents meant,
this stone cries out, and yet the stone is dumb.

Across the gallery, winged Hermes stands
to lead her where all sorrow’s held at bay,
and confident into the unseen lands
to go where Eve has waited many a day

she nods and steps away into the light.
And looking at her flight I catch my breath.
There are so many endings to the night.
An angel folds its wings in Nazareth.

Portrait of maiden, Maiden of Vulci, Tolonia Collection,
© Fondazione Torlonia. https://www.fondazionetorlonia.org/ritratto-di-fanciulla

For the First Sunday of Advent (Year A):

The night is now far gone,
and swiftly comes the dawn.
Make ready for the Lord of day:
Prepare the way!

Though now the sky is dark,
he kindles here the spark.
No eye can see, no ear can hear,
yet he draws near.

Bow down, then, mountain pride
not to oppose his stride.
Make straight a highway in the waste—
he comes in haste.

You valleys, lift your heads,
and deeps of all my dreads.
Let me come there though I am weak,
to him I seek.

When on the clouds he comes,
no more the martial drums
disturb our peace, and all who warred
shall bend the sword.

Then turn now, anger’s blade,
to plow this hidden glade.
This wilderness shall bear a feast
when dawn breaks east.

Through deserts in my soul
he’ll make his rivers roll.
My barren places blooming green
in him are seen.

And he shall make a way
to bring my night his day.
Let all I am, while dark the skies,
awake and rise!

13th century depiction of a ploughing By Baudouin d’Arras – photographie, travail personnel, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3837028

The night is now far gone, the day at hand,
we say, though nothing lights the eastern sky;
no golden morning rises on the land;
unbroken night enfolds the watching eye.
But longing so we cannot sleep, we stand
and wait for day to break for us on high.

As no one saw the infant in the womb
or felt his leaping, so the night wears on.
We would not see a nova in the gloom
‘til eons passed, yet where the darkness yawns
the flare is born, and sure within his tomb
a light was kindled long before the dawn.

Let hope be honest when it most seems false
as we face eastward, absent any glow.
We see not, nor we hear, and all sense dulls,
but still the heart conceives and still we know,
who tremble with the echoes of your pulse,
that somewhere in this dark, O Lord, you grow.

Picture of space from the northern hemisphere By Los Perros pueden Cocinar – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=130852158

The fog is rolling in again
to stifle light and muffle sound,
unpierceable by thought or sense;
in it the lost are never found,
and I, a panther in this pen
in its soft shackles helpless bound.

The fog is rolling in again,
like midnights in the chill of fall.
I found it terrifying then
to drive into no world at all,
cut off from every haunt of men,
with none to answer when I call.

The fog is rolling in again—
and light a candle, curse the dark,
all curse and comfort fail me when
the mist has swallowed every spark
as if no light had ever been.
The world is comfortless and stark.

The fog is rolling in again.
The curse is dampened as I shout.
There’s nothing left of vehemence,
and soon the candle flickers out.
I am alone in blank immense,
dissolving into formless doubt.

The fog is rolling in again.
I am cut off, below, above.
Throw me a line, O God in heav’n—
a thread of hope would be enough
to tie me to the world I ken.
Don’t let me go, Lord, in your love!

Italy By Dominicus Johannes Bergsma – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=43854534

The rulers sneered at Jesus and said,
“He saved others, let him save himself
if he is the chosen one, the Christ of God.”
Even the soldiers jeered at him.
As they approached to offer him wine they called out,
“If you are King of the Jews, save yourself.”
Above him there was an inscription that read,
“This is the King of the Jews.”
Now one of the criminals hanging there reviled Jesus, saying,
“Are you not the Christ?
Save yourself and us.”
The other, however, rebuking him, said in reply,
“Have you no fear of God,
for you are subject to the same condemnation?
And indeed, we have been condemned justly,
for the sentence we received corresponds to our crimes,
but this man has done nothing criminal.”
Then he said,
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
He replied to him,
“Amen, I say to you,
today you will be with me in Paradise.”
—Luke 23:35-43

O King of all the universe,
of height and depth unfathomed,
in limit swaddled at your birth,
in linen for your passion:

You know the weakness of my sight
that cannot bear your glory.
For me you dimmed your blazing light;
be king of mercy for me.

When you have trampled death by death
and into heaven entered,
remember me in my last breath:
O master, be my shepherd!

To lead me through the shadow vale.
my sovereign, go beside me
and with the love that never fails
protect me still and guide me!

Though long I’ve left the path of right,
yet seek me, Lord, and bring me
to pastures of your paradise.
Oh, may I join your kingdom!

Then with the angels I will praise
the Lord of might and justice,
and tell all hearts for endless days:
This king the king of love is!

Johannes VII. Grammatikos löscht ein Christus-Bild By Unknown author – http://www.krotov.info/spravki/persons/19person/1818hludov.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2981654

The wheel of justice grinds forever on
and we are grist beneath it as it spins,
ground down for all the sins of those who’ve gone,
as others will be broken for our sins.
Their blood cried out to us; ours calls again;
the wheel grinds on; the wind unceasing blows;
the count of crimes to answer only grows.

I lied once, to the god and to myself,
that I would love him for his promised gift,
this sight that sunder shadows ever delves
for precious truth.  When such a gem I lift
to catch the quickening sunlight, something shifts
and darkens every eye but mine.  I lied,
and for my perjury my brothers died.

But still I see the cobwebs of deceit.
Why waste your efforts cozening a slave?
You laid the cloths at Agamemnon’s feet
as shrouds to lay him in an unkind grave.
You need not fear; I’ll not cry out.  Who’d save
a captive thrall?  My brothers all are dead.
They’ll pay no ransom: You can go ahead,

but do not, pray, deceive yourself in this.
The wheel grinds on, and blood cries out for blood.
You shall have satisfaction but no bliss,
and will not stem the tide that turns to flood.
You, too, shall writhe, shall churn the ground to mud
beneath the justice coming for your deed.
But no, the god won’t let you pay me heed.

So be it.  Let me ramble as the mad:
Yet one shall come, shall all our sorrows feel,
who knows the long-lost daughter that you had
and holds in hand all punishments to deal—
but mercy stops the turning of the wheel.
Your justice grinds us both to dust, but he
will stop its rounds, and then we shall go free.

Then take me, Clytemnestra, as you deem.
I do not fear the swiftness of the knife,
and I shall live for you each time you dream
wrapped in the bloody shrouds of ancient strife.
‘Til mercy conquers vengeance, this is life.
But who would dare deny us vengeance here?
The wheel shall turn ‘til such a one draw near.

Cassandra (1898?) By Evelyn De Morgan (1855-1919) – Flickr and [1], Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=658924

There will be trumpets; there will be brass bands
among the shofars when the walls come down,
a blaring fanfare for the common man
descending then with thorns upon his brow
and holes like whole notes through his riven hands.
We all shall rise and wait to hear his count
to start the song the hosts of heaven have sung—
and each of us shall sing in his own tongue.

And yet no Babel, this, but harmony
composed of all the musics of the world,
a grace redeeming our cacophony
and filling up the gaps between our words,
transforming every voice that sings off-key
into a tone no earthly ear has heard.
But we have known it, loved it even so,
and even now its echoes in us grow:

Reverberating in the daily songs
our mothers taught us, fathers bass-note boomed,
our sisters played us—striking some keys wrong
but far more right—our brothers cracked-voice crooned,
and when we grew we learned to sing along
and chased that music in and out of tune.
When Jesus comes again, oh, he will sing
the song that calls to us through everything.

There will be choirs and angel voices raised,
and in among them voices that we know
in myriad songs will make one hymn of praise,
and Christ himself with a resounding Do
will tune the motifs of our separate lays
into one chorus.  Singing, we shall go,
with the saints go marching: We shall hear each voice,
and we shall look upon him and rejoice.

The ceiling mosaic of the Baptistery in Florence (c. 1240-1300) depicts (in the innermost octagon of images) all nine of the orders of angelic beings: the Seraphim and Cherubim are shown with Christ at lower center, while the other ranks each occupy a separate field, above which are their Latin designations. By Ricardo André Frantz (User:Tetraktys) – taken by Ricardo André Frantz, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2267968

“When you hear of wars and insurrections,
do not be terrified; for such things must happen first,
but it will not immediately be the end.”
Then he said to them,
“Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.
There will be powerful earthquakes, famines, and plagues
from place to place;
and awesome sights and mighty signs will come from the sky.”
—Luke 21:5-19

Now our foundations tremble;
no stone on stone shall stand,
but if we’ve lost our temple, 
are we still in your hand?

For nation batters nation
and peace gives way to war
and all our faith is shaken—
Is this the end, O Lord?

Not yet, though signs and portents
have filled our minds with fear.
You will not leave us orphans,
and you are drawing near.

The skies begin to threaten;
the world begins to burn;
yet when you rend the heavens
it means you will return.

As once you came to win us,
O Christ, you come again
to bring a new beginning,
for this is not the end.

Now in the hour of crisis
is hope for future days:
The sun of justice rises
with healing in his rays.

Observing a sunrise on the National Elk Refuge is truly a memorable experience. Photo: Kari Cieszkiewicz/USFWS Scenes from the National Elk Refuge By USFWS Mountain-Prairie – A Frosty Morning, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=110781726