Christmas Day

A Poem

Can tide of death be stemmed by man?
Can sin’s awful embrace have halt?
Will summer’s shining show again?
Echoes our cry to Heaven’s vault?

What singers here? And what this song?
Why Heaven’s light upon this scene?
Why so much fear? Why so much joy?
Why praising for a thing so mean?

A time long gone was Word of God,
And long since days of Heav’nly sound.
For years our hope hath flown
Hindered, and fallen down
Shall Christ yet come? Or does His crown
Lie broken, shattered on the ground?

And he who fell from Heaven laughs
But true, he laughs too soon.
With weeping comes his doom and swift
Defeat from manger hayish strewn.

This Babe will hang above the world
With arms outstretched in love of men
This child of shame and dirt shall die,
The Word of God in ink unpenned.

The tree already heavy hangs,
Its horrored limbs are ending’s end.
With three red nails we pierce, we drive
With swift cruel spear His side we rend.

And broken Life’s life lies
Imbeds His brow with thorns
The One whose words their spines gave shape
And crafted sharpened scorn.

Down stoops our Lord in low defeat?
O weary God, now bound fleshly?
What hope in this? What summer comes?
How harkens this to victory?

Now Christ’s appearing is made known—
Now tyrants bend and bow the knee
The fear of Him has eaten them
Until they fall, and cowards flee.

For Life that falls at Life’s decree
Shall live at last with Death’s defeat.
With Him we’ll rise, with Him we’ll reign,
Our sin He took and hung with Him
And buried, tombed below all hymns
That we might savéd be and free.

Now Christ’s appearing is made known—
Foretold in years long passed away.
Loud trumpets of his coming sound,
In thunder Heaven’s gates give way.

Behold the Lamb! Behold the Slain!
Behold the Name above all names!
The glory of His advent shines—
Child born in dirt and shame—

My King, whose blood would wash the world,
My Lord, whose death the shield ‘gainst strife,
Thy reign in gold aloud is heard
And trumpets cry Thy name, oh Word
Through Heav’n and earth Thy name is feared,
That name whose sound is death and life.

In triumph sing, O brethren mine!
Is His not victory at last?
Let Herod fall! Let Pharaoh yield!
Look, brothers, wide the spreading fields.
They are white and ready to yield—
Go thou and reap the harvest vast.

Image from Pinterest: The White Candle of Christmas

This poem was originally written as a rough draft for NSA’s Catalyst newspaper.