Light
‘twas the night before Christmas – the old poem begins
the night before freedom from slavery, from sins
‘twas the night before Christmas the cold and the dark
The empty, the lonely, a hearth with no spark
‘twas the night before Christmas when whispers were heard
on the fringes, the outskirts, of something… absurd
Now the story we know, with the wisemen and Kings
The manger, the shepherds, the angels that sing
Is happy and hopeful but I think we forget
that the Lord of creation… had not arrived yet
So I open with darkness, I believe ‘twas the scene
On the night before Christmas, with a cold pregnant teen…
The state of the world before he arrived
was the same as our hearts in our own modern lives:
Confused and abandoned, too stubborn and proud
worried about what is and what isn’t “allowed”
Tradition and law are the powers at be
Some claim to be righteous, though none truly free
Joy is elusive, and faith? non-existent
the demands of society are rather persistent
The tithe and the tax, the day to day drain
The powers of the world exercise their domain
Exile, wandering, meaningless toil
was this what God meant when he said ‘work the soil’
Addicted, abandoned, ashamed, full of guilt
Postponing the slow, inevitable wilt
Oppressed by the structures, the rules and the system
As they laugh at our feeble attempts to resist them
The demons take pride in the state they’ve created
as the watch the slow march of their victims; berated
The rebellion’s complete, become a revolution
The house of the LORD now an empty institution
I imagine their faces began to crack a smile
as the tempters and taunters look on and revile
their work now is done – though it took quite a while
The battle is over, evil has won
abducting their victims slowly one by one
The souls of the earth have been captured and trained
to get by on their own, quiet, maintained
while their life and ambition is shattered and drained
-
Hark! the Herald angels Sing!
Shock! A young mother with no wedding ring
Three nobles, A journey, three gifts do they bring
A cry… a genocide, a jealous, proud king…
So a child is born, in the ghetto, the streets
No rooms, no midwives, no bedding, no sheets
A royal guard of shepherds, a throne made of wheat
Reminding us all to fall from our feet;
To drop to our knees, to swallow our pride
to allow a small child, in our hearts to reside
To be still, and know hope, and in peace to abide.
