A poem from an unknown poet that recreated the power of Christmas for me.
O God, you absent one
Surveying the vast waste
Our human dreaming gave way to,
Perched above so as to see
The full breadth of devastation
And to hear the feeble prayers
Of those who despite their desperation
Still remembered how to call upon you,
Still believed in your lordly ransoming
Of the enslaved, raped, trodden
And spat upon, bereft of children,
Parents, lovers, not thinking anymore
Of that fantasy human dignity
But hoping for some tender mercy
Extended from your condescending
Beneficence; O Heavenly One,
Lord, Master, King on High,
Deigning to look down on these
Disasters and to contemplate your
Divine rescue; again voices rise
To you to sing your praise,
Alleluias celebrating your
Fleshly birth and promising
Something called Immanuel,
You with us, voices pretending
At least to believe that old tale
Of a baby and a stable and shepherds
And angel choirs belting out
For the whole world to know
A crazy secret of a king, messiah,
Come from your height to our
Lowly depth and you knowing and caring
For us and the wasteland this space
Has become. I hear the songs and
The words recited over and over again,
Telling a too-familiar tale,
To this weary, bored, captive Israel,
News advertising a commodity
Called Great Joy, branded, patented,
Packaged, guaranteed to satisfy
Every bloodied consumer seeking
Comfort and the solace that heals
In a season dedicated to a
Purported peace on earth.
O God, you far-away mysterious Ruler
Contemplating Incarnation,
My own song lifts up today,
Wafting not in the direction of
Your Heavenly sanctuary, not toward
Your Royal throne, but to and for
These holy, lost, lonely lives
And the souls who lack the curiosity
That would suggest the question,
What the hell do you mean
By peace, comfort, and joy,
What sort of foolishness is that,
When anyone with eyes, ears, a nose,
And a heart not entirely insensitized
Can see hear smell feel the stench of
This hope-destroying existence and
The stupor of our daily living?
Who ask not why the foolish story
Is repeated year after year without
Seeming to make much difference
In the conduct of those who
Praise the Prince of Peace—
Who, having lost hope themselves,
Educated well by the hard knocks of
A long history of repeated defeat,
Don’t imagine a heavenly rescue
At all, not having indulged in the
Habit of the coddled well-off , the
Ones who expect a deus ex machina
And so appeal to you in your throne—
No, these who attend instead to
The moment’s immediate need,
The search for what is absolutely
Necessary on a cold night of hunger
And pain, with contractions
Commencing, and no pity to be found
On earth or in heaven, for travelers
Undocumented and far, far from
Home and warmth and a safe place
For a peasant child to be born.
A lonely song it may be in this
Season of carols and fanfares
Dedicated to this royal birth
And a story thoroughly domesticated
By those who bought up all
The international publishing
Rights; but I will try to intone
The melody bravely, singing to
Ones who have no expectation
Of praise, no cause for celebration
As they struggle with a painful
And unsanitary delivery in a
Hovel, and wonder how in the world
They will feed another one
In this cruel world that makes
No room for wanderers on a
Bitter cold night.