Christ | Christmas | Humility | Incarnation | Poetry

Much like tonight it must have been,
The keen wind knifing every crack
And burnishing the stars until they sang
Out of the midnight heavens, sharp as jewels.
The stable was unheated, and the drafty stall
Muttered among its hay while oxen breathed
Their wreaths of fog across the trembling air.
And every sound fell brittle on her ears.
But fire was an unnecessary thing.
Much like tonight, the world was cold for truth,
And as she wrapped the swathing bands in place
Mary could tell she held eternal Warmth. Charles A. Waugaman, Myrrh for My Birthday, 1986 Box 248, Conneaut Lake, PA 16316

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