Write Away...

"Siano gradite davanti a te le parole della mia bocca e la meditazione del mio cuore, o Eterno, mia rocca e mio redentore." -Psalm 19:14

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Località: West Linn, Oregon, United States

"Perhaps it would be better not to be a writer, but if you must, then write. If it all feels hopeless, if that famous 'inspiration' will not come, write. If you are a genius, you'll make your own rules, but if not - and the odds are against it - go to your desk, no matter what your mood, face the icy challenge of the paper - write." ~ J.B. Priestly

dicembre 03, 2004

Infant King

the stable was not expecting company,
and the quiet sanctuary of cedar wood and tumbling mounds of sweet smelling hay,
were not prepared for their searching visitors, their heavenly guest,
for the hopeful faces that soon wandered in,
not a moment to late in time,
not a second too soon by the count of heaven,
and I remember the young virgin’s face,
the smile still clinging to faith unspoken,
the tear-struck cheeks, stained with earth’s soil,
and the musty smell of donkey still lingering on her tattered clothes,
it was just how I had envisioned her,
the soft spoken woman, carrying so much more than a baby in her womb,
but a holy life, a perfect, sinless savior, the darling of heaven and earth,
the world and I had not seen him yet,
only silently anticipated his humble arrival,
to our stable unworthy,
strewn with golden straw and what remained of the feed,
unkept and uncertain, abandoned,
yet it must have been perfect for him,
I feared the shepherds would not arrive in time,
to watch in wonder as he breathed his first breath of air,
heavy with aging hay, and crisp December skies,
but they came with looks of expectation,
their curious eyes ever moving, seeking the promised babe,
and the wise men followed not long after,
bearing gifts in abundance,
the mysterious aroma of myrrh, mingling with the musty air of the stable,
in reverence did they come before the infant king,
bowing, overcome with blameless submission,
and I remember watching the father and mother,
leaning gently over their newborn son,
the child they delivered, who had come to deliver them,
and they marveled at him,
stroking the rose petal skin on his precious face,
singing sweetly the lullabies they once knew,
and praying for answers,
reveling in the wonder of the night,
did they inwardly acclaim their king,
and smiled as the whimpers were hushed by the performance of the dancing stars,
and the eternal flow of silvery light,
pouring in through the open walls of the stable,
gracing the manger where he lay,
sleeping soundly,
yes, even the moon watched from afar.