Thoughts about Christmas.

Untitled Poem

In Bethlehem, the house of bread where David’s throne was made
The Roman need to count their own had brought a sad parade.
One couple there, a carpenter with very lovely wife
Took shelter in a safe, warm place to bring in one more life.

The shepherds who attended them brought few if any stares:
’Twas census time, and stables were just right for their affairs.
That they should worship at the trough-made-crib was some surprise,
But each new life’s a miracle, and praised by those who’re wise.

Most miracles of that fair night are common in our eyes;
A choir of angels likely sings when first each baby cries.
But this new child was something more than any ’fore or since:
He was the mortal Son of God, our Savior and our Prince.

Four men wrote books about His life, but only one His birth;
Of more-recorded things to praise there surely is no dearth.
But birth’s a homely miracle, a marvel we can feel,
And in that way I guess it makes the Savior’s life more real.