By Ana Lisa de Jong
Word Count: 166
Rating: G
Summary: A poem in anticipation of Jesus’s birthday.
It is Christmas Eve.
The eve of your birth.
Our hearts now turn to you
to re-orient ourselves
to what is true.
To what is truer
than the rush and the fuss
of all our preparations.
Truer still, than tired
hands and hearts.
Jesus, come.
And as we count the gifts waiting under our trees,
we ask ourselves,
what can we bring you?
What do we offer
that you have not already received?
You, whose gold, frankincense, and myrrh
the magi laid at your feet?
What can we bring
that means anything to you?
To whom the angels
sang their praise.
It is Christmas Eve.
The eve of your birth.
Our hearts now turn towards you,
and as Mary and Joseph did,
we rest on you our gaze.
We kneel like the shepherd boy,
lost for words.
And our hearts and all they contain,
open and melt and run out
upon the sand.
All we are left with are
open hearts and empty hands.
Jesus, come.