Lo, unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.
Hold a moment and I will speak of
A holy day we ought to think of
The silver light of winter's end
A jubilation, a merry mend.
Now this tide had not come in
Not in winter's tide and when
It came when we know not the day
But of this time we all must say
The celebration of it came in
Winter's chill and cold tide when
All of us remember it cold
And thus it is the tale we've told.
A child who is God what can be said
What of Reason, lying, playing dead
But yet among irrational beasts there
Sets he minds true Reason to bear.
And of his bed we have a thought
Hay, oat, grain are caught
A manger, trough, holds without strife
For us Beasts, a bread of Life.
And is he not a stranger, Beauty
Who yet minds the law's dire duty
Friend of all, redeemer of Blood
A cast-out family, 'mid the mud?
Another thought about the cave
He comes not how our mind would crave;
It is into our deepest darkest place
He comes his stripes, his marks to trace.
And is not, if he Divinity
He the richest there can be?
But yet are poor-lords whose royal line,
Bore him here, in dust, in grime?
The cold and snow we must agree
Involve a kind felicity
An art to God's own story-telling
A solstice tale, a new God-spelling!
For out of the cold of our barren lack
Dayspring has dawned, the coming-back
Of what had fallen, of what was ours
In a lost child beneath the stars.
In which we see an irony
Worldly-wise East-lords three
Their precision tools and knowing word
Bring them only to our Lord.
In seeking stars they find the Sun,
And gifts are offered, three for one.
Fire they think, is their creator's form
But the Zeon is instead, a child warm.
And what of our experience here
About this God as child dear?
The ancient of days is so old,
He's rolled over to young, each year we're told!
The fact of Christmas is extended through
Every year we relive it true;
The Christmas story is never done
Until the last Christmas;
The final one.