A simple Christmas poem that I wrote for the Baljaffray Parish Church Christmas Eve service.

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus, lay down His sweet head,
But the babe became a boy,
And the boy became a teen,
And the teen became a man,
Pleased as man with man to dwell.

The cattle lowed, the angels sang,
The sheep they baaa-ed, the glories rang,
The little baby, despite what you’ve heard,
Wailed and cried, and disrupted the sleep,
Of Mary and Joseph, and even the sheep.

Shepherds and wise men,
Came from near and far,
Frightened by angels, following a star,
Came down from the hills, leaving their herd,
Curious to see what on earth had occurred,
Bringing their gifts, bending their knee,
Not really sure what they’d come to see.

A baby. In a feeding trough. A little bit odd,
Surrounded by cloths, and poverty, and shame,
Could this be our king, our Messiah, our God?
And yet He laid His glory by,
Became what we are, lived where we live,
Gave up everything to share in our nothing,

So let us put aside childish things,
But keep the wide-eyed joy within,
Let us lament the winter bleak,
But find hope in the footprints leading on,
To the celestial hearth of warmth and home,
And in the stillness and the quiet,
Listen for the still, small voice,
Rising on the dawn of redeeming grace,
Glory to the newborn King.

For the babe became a boy,
And the boy became a teen,
And the teen became a man,
Pleased as man with man to dwell.
And the man became a teacher,
And the teacher was a prophet,
And the prophet was a king,
And the king became a problem,
And the problem was made a criminal,
And the criminal was hung upon a cross to die,
And the dead man was laid in a tomb,
Surrounded by cloths, and poverty, and shame.

But the dead man rose again,
Born that we no more would die,
Born to give us second birth,
Jesus, our Emmanuel.

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