Poems for the Incarnation
I first wrote this series of spoken word poems for Advent almost a decade ago, trying to convey the scandal and wonder of the incarnation. It felt like time to revisit and revise them for Christmas this year.
SIMEON'S WAITING
Creation is aching,
Creation is groaning;
A woman is moaning in childbirth—
Each morning, all nature joins with her;
Together they cry for atoning.
Oh Father, how far off you feel!
There's men drawing steel,
Girls fearing to heal,
They cry to the heavens—
Are cold stars the only light that You reveal?
Have we grown so distant, my King?
You walked with our parents through gardens in spring.
They hid from You, yes, still You saw everything.
We've brought You our bulls for Your burnt offerings,
We've made our oblations, we've tuned up our strings,
Yet do You give ear when we pray?
Do you hear when we sing?
Are we destined to pay and to pay
For the law Adam didn't obey?
Are You there listening,
Or am I just talking to me?
We are in a world diseased.
A world deceased. A world torn piece from piece,
Where men treat men as beasts,
Where people suffer—people cease.
Where, King above, is Your reign of peace?
Why don't you come to this world morose?
Come put an end to the devil's boast
With fire and light and an angel host?
This is my plea,
Or if I'm honest, it should be
But isn't.
I've given up the ghost here
Under Roman captivity,
An old man waiting for Messiahs who will never be.
JOSEPH'S REFLECTION
When they draw pictures of my bride,
How will they paint her—benign, beatified?
Will they show the dirt from a tired ride?
Show me shaking at her side
As the child arrived?
Will her dress be spotless white?
Pastel dyed?
Or crimson from what grew inside?
God become flesh, become one of us.
God become sunburnt, dust on dust.
God who would be broken,
Trussed up on a cross—
God somehow made one of us?
In this we trust,
But at the same time draw back in disgust.
It is a wonder and scandal indeed,
Declaring that heaven descends to bleed.
That Adam's potter and Adam's seed
Would choose to be one,
Sucking His thumb,
Hungry for the milk to run.
God and man, curse undone—
In scandal and wonder we come.
O crown Him, a King crowning.
A King from the womb, half-drowning
In the stuff of life, a feeble heartbeat pounding.
O crown Him, a King crying.
A King in a feed trough lying
With his wrinkled skin—a King already dying
O crown Him, a God
Clutching at His umbilical cord,
Eternal, exalted, umbilicalled Lord,
Creation's first Word, heaven poured
Over a human's tongue
Within a human's skin
Into a human's brain
For every human's sin.
A mother's labor pain,
A fragile life begins,
That in its train
All humans might be born again.
THE SHEPHERD'S STORY
We who huddle in hovels and hobble to wells,
Who wear our sheeps' skins and share our sheeps' smell,
We scrape for our bread as we wander the dells—
Come hear, all you haughty, the story we tell.
The night was pure, with ice-spiked wind,
Our tents were tatters battered thin,
When ewes and rams both quit their din
And starry skies were split.
He stood, bright steel and burnished gold,
A warrior burning, visage cold,
We swore our deaths, both young and old
Had come like holy writ.
He met our eyes; his pinprick flames.
“In David's city,” he proclaimed,
“Is the anointed Savior laid
In birth among the beasts.”
Then angel armies over fields
Were shaking swords and banging shields
And yelling, “Glory! Glory yield
Unto the prince of peace.”
And so we hurried to the home.
There was no palace, bower, throne,
A humble hut, like those we own,
An oaken door that creaked.
They wore no broaches, cloaks, or pearls—
A calloused man, a shaking girl,
A toothless infant, swaddled, curled
Up in a tired sleep.
I can see by your brow and the twist of your lip
That this seems an improbable deliverance
But we've seen God's anointed, our sovereign exists!
So come offer your laud, your obeisance, your gifts,
Because this is it.
THE MAGI'S HUMBLING
A cold coming we had of it, riding
Ever towards the setting sun.
It was a new star, white and shining,
That had bid us come.
Bid us who peered into mysteries,
Bid us who, in our vanity,
Thought we could untangle the knots of our destiny—
It bid us, “Come and wonder, come and see.”
“A King is born,” it said.
The sort of King which astral bodies sing.
The sort of King who we ought tribute bring.
A King for endless winter's spring;
The kind of King we're beggared to believe.
In distant lands, with distant gods
Who lie unheeding of our pleas,
We worship lords with strength of law
Or strength to bring their foes defeat.
But who is this the heavens scream?
Some backhills, battered refugees
Disgraced and left with meager means?
What kind of Lord is born to these?
What kind of Lord indeed?
A Lord somehow for me?
A Lord sucking cold air into His chest?
A Lord left clutching Mary’s breast?
A man of sorrows—God no less—
Acquainted with grief, acquainted with death?
To men called wise, what deep foolishness—
A foolishness most blessed.
So give your gold for the pauper's crown,
Frankincense to the one bent down,
Myrrh to bathe His mortal frame,
Wonder—for they say His name
Is God With Us!
A God men touch,
A God who knows our pain—
Immanuel? Insane!
But let it be, the same.
THE ANGEL'S PROCLAMATION
If I could have your attention please,
The heavens declare our new-born king!
Born of a virgin,
Firstborn of the dead,
Born an incursion—
A heavenly spearhead.
Born to make war on the forces of darkness,
To topple the tyrants, to end all injustice,
To share your humanity—beautiful, frail—
To bear your rebellion, be pierced by your nails
Live Israel's story—exile, restoration—
Break down the walls between races and nations,
Give us His righteousness and His inheritance,
God as your brother, and God your true parent;
Death broken, sin shattered, now no condemnation;
Hell's gates are torn open—
That's my proclamation!
The King has come!
See, saints and scoffers,
See his glory—glory offer.
Fall on your faces,
Leave your high places.
Lowly he lies here, the Lord of the Ages.
God descended, man exalted.
God incarnate, man made faultless.
God made sin and man washed spotless,
God's wrath spent and man's curse halted.
Glory to God at the highest levels!
Peace on earth where His favor settles!
This is the child; this is the movement
Where heaven and earth meet.
This is the child; this is the moment.
Come, and see, and weep.
Come and see your King!
SIMEON'S WAITING, REDUX
Creation is aching,
Creation is groaning;
A woman is moaning in childbirth—
Each morning, all nature joins with her;
Together they cry for atoning.
We are in a world diseased.
A world deceased. A world torn piece from piece,
Where men treat men as beasts,
Where people suffer—people cease.
Where, King above, is Your reign of peace?
Why don't you come to this world morose?
Come put an end to the devil's boast
With fire and light and an angel host?
This is my plea,
Or if I'm honest, it should be
But isn't.
I've given up the ghost here
Under Roman captivity,
An old man waiting for Messiahs who will never…
Could it be?
This Spirit-voice that's whispering—
Might I believe what it is telling me?
This couple in the temple's wings,
In dusty garments—this cannot be!
This cannot be the King!
His eyes, unfocused and gray.
His palms could snap in my hands!
His bones and guts and brains
Joined with the great I AM?
You, distant, daunting God—
You would become a man?
I cannot understand.
And yet...
A woman is laughing,
A baby is smiling,
While you are defiled wearing our flesh,
Made subject to our death, joined with us
To become what you're reconciling.
Now Your servant may depart in peace.