There, in the hay’s warmth and the steaming sty,
The Word born to the frailty of flesh
Cracks our mortality with a weak cry
And seals our life within his endlessness.
The Word born to the frailty of flesh,
He lies wrapped in the cloths of mystery,
And seals our life within his endlessness,
In infant finitude eternity.
He lies wrapped in the cloths of mystery,
The straining of small limbs, unopened eyes.
In infant finitude, eternity
And love invisible we recognize.
The straining of small limbs, unopened eyes
Draw us from torchlight to the light of glory,
And love invisible we recognize
Shaping the child’s dream of the Christmas story.
Draw us from torchlight to the light of glory.
Crack our mortality with a weak cry,
Shaping the child’s dream of the Christmas story,
Here in the hay’s warmth and the steaming sty.
—James Matthew Wilson
Image by Puccio di Simone on Picryl licensed via Creative Commons. Image cropped.
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