As if the infant Christ were never born –
Or fragrant as the meadows, smokeless-flamed,
Beeswax tapers golden-sconced had shone
On anti-Christ, and Power was His name
Callous Earth of winter seems as much,
Empty as if Christ had never cried
And waved his arms, transparent fingers clutched
Around his father's finger — did He die?
Not on Golgotha but in that stall
Where grasses soaked in sesame were lit
And vulgar shadows scraped against the wall –
How many mourning shepherds there would fit?
Yet we hear that seraphim rejoiced
And shepherds shook the moisture from their cloaks
Though royal nightingales were not in voice
And heralds of King Herod never spoke
They say the infant lived, unlikely child,
Who came to love the empty-hearted Earth,
So demon-ridden, foul and defiled
That only God could know what it was worth
IMPORTANT NOTICE TO OUR READERS
Catholic Exchange is free—but it is not free to produce. Advertising revenue covers only a fraction of the cost to generate reliably Catholic commentary and news, inspiring videos, a selection of the best Catholic blogs, and daily meditations and prayers.
To give us the strength and stability we need, Catholic Exchange is turning to you—our loyal reader—and asking you to become a monthly contributor.
Whether you can give $5 or $25, $50 or $100 each month, please leave something behind so we can continue—and strengthen—this important apostolate.
We are deeply grateful for one-time gifts, but we encourage you to choose “Monthly” on the drop-down menu. Your support will ensure that Catholic Exchange will be here during this most critical moment for the Church and America.
