Gold and Frankincense and Myrrh
Gold and frankincense and myrrh--
Gifts from the Gentile men to her,
Must have baffled Mary's mind
For such strange gifts and men to find
Her with Joseph and the Child
After months of travel wild,
Coming as they did to worship the Infant King,
Coming on the eastern wing,
Coming, worshiping, offerings leaving,
Warning Mary of future grieving.
Gold and frankincense and myrrh--
Meant for the Child, entrusted to her.
How odd it must have seemed
As the gifts intense scents and gleamed
As more practical gifts were not brought
These were those which these had thought
Appropriate for a King's birth,
And so they were for King of heaven and of earth.

Once in a while, my husband works with me to craft one of these pieces. The following is one such joint venture.
INCARNATION
God took the form of man yet
Fully remained/remains God while
Serving/teaching as Son of Man
Then lived a full life facing temptation resisting temptation--
Not a sinful thought, not a sinful word, not a sinful act--
Then concluded that sinless life and took up the cross
Embraced the cross
Embraced the Father's will that there would be death
Embraced the Spirit in trusting there would be a resurrection
Incarnation

Christmas Eve Prayer
God my Father, first His, forgive
All the sins I have committed:
The evil I have done, the good I have omitted.
Forgive my pride which is as if I have spitted
In the face of Your One and Holy Son.
Forgive my faithlessness where Your word is clear;
It is as if I neither see nor hear.
Forgive the words with which I hurt intended,
And damage accomplished.
Forgive the tone which hides the heart
Because I know what to say and how--hypocrisy.
Forgive the expressions which I can make
Which are not honest, which are rather, fake.
Forgive my willful procrastination,
My choices which do not bring You honor.
I cannot ask You to forgive me because I am worthy
But because without Your mercy I am eternally without hope.
And when I sin I sense that hopelessness
And when I sin I feel almost resigned to hopelessness,
Until I read Your word,
Until I am submissive to it.
Father, I struggle because
Father, forgive

Song of Incarnation

I wrote this during the 1969-1970 school year for the Bethel College [MN] yearbook.

Song of Incarnation

Christ Jesus--Christ Jesus! Immanuel
God has come to us, has come to earth to dwell.
Sing ye people, let your hearts' voices swell
And glorify our God and His Immanuel.

Jesus, Jesus, God's Holy Christ,
You have come to be as we
In flesh encumbered but yet a while
And You will die that we need die no more.

Jesus, Jesus, Holy God, now man, O Christ,
We know You came to be sacrificed.
We killed You, O God crucified,
And You rose for us, God glorified.

Christ Jesus--Christ Jesus! Immanuel
God as man has come to us, has come in us to dwell.
Sing ye people, let your hearts' voices swell,
And glorify our God and His Immanuel.


Twas the week before Christmas

I wrote this while in graduate school [Wheaton, IL] circa 1986.

Twas the week before Christmas

It doesn't seem like Christmas is just a week away,
Not today.
All days seem somwhat similar, or dis-,
And so they are, for a "grown-up" that is.
They go on and on in a stream unbreakable
With expectations and demands unshakable.

Life wasn't always so regimented
As to drive one to be nearly demented.
There was a childhood in everyone's past,
And for most it couldn't last.
Oh, not the immaturity, that's not what I mean,
But the sense of seeing which was once more keen.

The sense of seeing and of surprise
Gets lost in the transfer to "adult" eyes
And wonder is with worry and rush replaced
As we learn that no haste is waste.

So Christmas becomes another season
Filled less with wonder than with reason,
And we hurry and we count
As commitments mounts,
And we rush and we fret
About what isn't done yet,
And we lose our breath and our peace
For this is grownupness--no time for release!

We push and we panic and we hope we won't be late.

We've got to dash and dash, and push away the hate

Of the guy who cuts in front of us in any given line

And of the children weary who scream and whine

And we put on the right face

As we push the frenetic pace

Which never comes to a sane halt of quiet;

Don't try to deny it.

That's how it gets to be

As we all verge on seasonal insanity.

It isn't just grading or papers to write

That makes us lose sleep on these winter's night

After night but the pace that we buy

And the stories we self-tell, those are why

Christmas cannot come in just seven days--

We've run far too low on our stock of praise

In our haste and in our worry

Mostly what we've got is hurry

And praise takes time--a precious commodity

Whether in coutry or city community--

And we've used it and gotten overdrawm

And now we are feeling quite put upon....

We cannot buy praise or thanks;

They don't draw interest in banks.

They come from a heart

At peace, quiet, in part

From not competing,

Not head beating

Against the nearest wall

For not being better than everyone or all.

Grace is what it takes to praise

And praise makes grace abound on days

When both seem in shortest supplyAnd for both, each, all, God is why.

He is reason enought for each rejoicement,

The Word who defines what the voice meant,

And goes beyond, and sweetly surrounds, protects,

Within whose confines we can connect

And find tranquility and content,

Finally whole, our hearts no longer rent.

For He is our peace and in His image we

Can find joy and harmony.

Then Christmas and Easter and all other days

Will find for us the norm is praise.

Circumstances be what they may,

Let joy resound both night and day.

Time and how it moves and where

I discovered that I wrote this 12 December 2005 and noted: "This is how I often see December, filling it with reflections on time. I guess that means I am growing older--okay, aging." If that then, all the more so now.

Time and how it moves and where
Time and how it moves and where:
On a conveyor into thin air;
Or so it seems from my view point.
Time seems to move in measured ways,
But only one direction [that aways],
Impenetrable, imponderable,
Almost as if there is an element of eternality
Which framed it and named it,
Directed it and sent it out to do
Whatever time does, is for.
So time is what it is created by eternity for
And will fulfill its commands and then be no more.

Christmas Before Christmas



This past Sunday was the first Sunday in Advent.


Christmas Before Christmas

What child is this who came to be birthed, grow; be tested and die,
For you and for me?

What child is this who never sins while tempted again and again,
Yet never gives in?

What child is this who is fully God, now a baby on the very sod
Which that same baby spoke into being?

What child is this who Mary holds and nurses and nourishes;
Who is Mary's Savior and Teacher and Comforter?

What child is this who will go from infancy to manhood then
Lay down his sinless life?

What child is this who no one pays any attention to except as an excuse
For buying gifts and letting loose?

What child is this who is remembered only so long with
Lipped song, while mind is elsewhere engaged?

Who is this child who, grown to mankind full,
Will lay down his sinless life for my sinful soul?

It must be God, for only God can satisfy God's holy commands;
God who placed his life into God's hands.

It must be God for only God could live without sinning,
God for God, souls through His death winning.

It must be God, now in humble refuge and rude.

It must be God, who will carry a cross of wood.

It must be God--a child so conceived.

It must be God--who repentant, we must believe.

It must be God--all glory from most high and most low;

It must be God--to Him all honors flow.