The Hidden Life

The Hidden Life

A guiding star for travelers, 

was herald of his birth

the shepherds quaked within their fields 

to hear the angels’ mirth, 

yet all of them in time did find 

a hidden family, 

and in the hearts of those, 

I deem,

was greatest mystery

 

How was he born, 

who birthed the world; 

in poverty or wealth? 

how could he die,

who slew all death, 

and gave the sick their health?

We see the way, 

marked out by him, 

who blazed the only trail, 

where fullness of the victory 

 is found when we still fail

 

For can we guess

the worth of lives 

lived short upon the Earth? 

if measured by the 

deeds we’ve done, 

then what could be their worth? 

 

Rule an empire? 

it shall fade, 

to dust or into sand, 

like ancient Babel’s monument, 

what’s left of it to stand? 

 

For fame and fortunes 

come and go, 

for what then shall we strive? 

what good is health or family, 

if none be left alive? 

 

But fear not 

and have courage, friend, 

the small becomes the great, 

though small be deeds 

done day to day, 

yet great shall be their weight

 

For though all things 

shall pass away, 

yet still, we all shall rise, 

and quiet lives 

lived in his love 

will win the only prize

 

for is there any on the Earth,

who did a deed that’s great? 

even the Lord himself did seem, 

to share our sorry fate 

 

For what befell,

the Lord of all 

who hung upon the tree?

it seemed that all was lost for him 

when he saved you and me!

 

Though Far and wide

 his fame has grown, 

and so, we now forget, 

his torturous death

Did not at first

Appear to make us blessed 

 

And yet we see the 

years roll by, 

after stone was rolled away, 

the empty tomb, 

has filled our hearts 

and gives a place to stay

 

For small we are 

and shall remain, 

what good then are our lives? 

what meaning, 

and what legacy 

are found in our short times? 

 

There is the single privilege 

to walk this world with him, 

in him to do the daily works,

in him be cleansed of sin. 

 

For in him who 

was born so poor, and died almost alone, 

we find homes for our sufferings,

a hope that we may own 

for in him, and within his love, 

a small life is not small,

the simple stands in dignity, 

the poor in richest hall, 

the fruitless striving bears much fruit, 

the barren life does bloom, 

the child takes the battlefield,

from the sickbed in her room. 

for little flowers we may be, 

but in him roots go deep, 

in him retrieve your dignity, 

and then you shall not weep 

 

For the author of our very lives, 

let his own youth be forgot, 

except his death and ministry, 

much is remembered not. 

if He himself who knows all things, 

thus, deigned to be unknown, 

why then O! Dear Mortal why? 

do you persist to groan? 

 

What then is it to you my friend, 

if your life is forgot? 

if every task shall fruitless be, 

before you’re left to rot? 

for if you’ve lived 

the life you’ve lived, 

and lived it in his sight, 

the dark of thy obscurity, 

shall be as endless light. 

 

And so, the call 

that calls to you must 

call you home as well, 

unto the home in Bethlehem, 

In which his Family dwells, 


So, see the glorious hidden lives 

which they lived with our Lord 

your life like theirs 

shall shine above

if through it, he’s adored! 

Original Poetry