upon the barren ground;
white, like an unwritten story;
soft, without a sound.
bells of crimson ringing hollow --
gifts cannot replace --
Christmas carols echo heartless --
feasts can't fill the space...
womb now empty; expectation
stolen in the night.
glowing-growing body, crumpled.
hope snatched out of sight.
two thousand years ago, heaven
watched with wondering eye:
only Son, earthen maiden,
her womb had swelled with Godhead-fullness
tipped from heaven's throne.
He grew up; she looked up:
saw Him pierced and all alone.
untimely death had robbed this mother
of her first-born Son.
yet, His sacrifice had left
no good thing undone.
a mother's tears, a spilled-out cup,
unleavened wafer crumbs;
a bloodied cross, an empty grave,
veil torn top to bottom.
the emptiness of Christmas calls
to hearts broken and true:
wrap your love -- womb Him here --
let Christ be born in you.
feel the sting of death, and hope
for victory and for Home.
lean hard, dear soul, and let Him wash you
white as fallen snow.
sharing this imperfect prose with friends
over at emily's place... http://canvaschild.blogspot.com