a poem for Advent

 

The first six months were dark and still.

He moved, of course, as babies will,

but to his mother gave no sign

of insight into things divine.

So tightly coiled the prophet lay

awaiting the appointed day.

 

No star shone in that darkened room,

no angel glory pierced the gloom,

no heavenly portents met his eyes

from which his faith might hope to rise.

Yet though the shadows filled his sight,

he was a witness to the light.

 

Unseen, unknown, unasked, unheard,

without a sound or spoken word

his voice cried in the wilderness,

a leaping burst of happiness

as hills and valleys sank and rose –

a belly stretched by tiny toes.

 

“Behold the Lamb! Prepare the way!”

The silent voice still cries today,

a call to faith in things unseen,

in One who comes to make us clean,

that Child the unborn John adored.

Prepare His way! He is the Lord.

 

 

 

Image Credit: By Photo: User:FA2010 – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15258834