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.

His sovereignty

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