Down the dusty, cobbled streets
Of my Bethlehem-heart
Echo the cries and laughter
Of the newborn Christ.
I have no Mary that will hold Him,
Clothe Him, and caress Him.
I’ve pledged no Joseph-claim to Him.
There is no wisdom that visits
To anoint Him King.
Only, in this poor manger does He draw near,
And make His home amongst the chaos.
Calvary’s hill stands
In the rebellion of my heart.
Where my Saviour hangs
On a cross I’ve cleaved
From this tree named Pride.
Affronts my self-sufficiency;
His arms open to the spear-shaped stab
Of my perceived imminent divinity.
Oh, pry open this tomb,
Roll back the stone of my own gloom.
I would be beholden by this Light,
In the promise of my heart’s territory
Subsumed by Your radiating glory.
Move my life’s course
From stable to hill to rough hewn stone,
And separate me from my infamy.
I can only rise as You raise,
Live from Your life,
Breathe out Your breath.
- Steve. November