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.