Buried Gold

There is so much to bury these days:
Old friends, old loves, dreams, the lamp
At the end of the lane, petals soft and damp
From sweaty hands, voice so loved, so dear,
Expectations of what may be, and fear
Of what may not, the pursuit of happiness
Spent in toil and grasping, fingers that hold
Riches that turn to dirt and grime and mold...

Mound it all up in the dust, pack it down,
Stamp the ground with your boots,
Water it with your tears. Somewhere roots
Will grow. Somehow the seed that dies
Will sprout forth—somehow warmth will rise
To touch the dead hard soil—wither lies
That a bud may blossom and keep tryst
For all that is buried in the heart of Christ.

Incarnation

Carved wooden altar—wood of manger;

Gold glimmers tabernacle—golden straw.

Stare anew: the sight becomes a stranger

As the piercing star the shepherds saw.

Breath of oxen—breath of God's own life

Exhaled in layers of dust and grime—

There daily work and pain and strife

Did long await His bursting into time.

His two bright eyes stare, imploring

Hearts sheltered, cold, and dim,

Even as we come to kneel, adoring

God in flesh—blind to sight of Him

Who comes to break our shroud of fears,

Of dreams too small, to catch our tears

In tiny hands outstretched. He smiles

To see those weighted down with trials

Stop for one brief moment, darkly gaze

With blank stare at the brightest blaze

Hid in swaddling clothes, flesh to give

To all: to teach us, newborn, to live.