Advent Sunday

Winter sun lifting the heart:
Frail, crisp, clear like a glass bauble
Delicate and precious, retrieved
From long storage.
We begin again, the old story,
The high hopes: he will come.
Not with reassuring return of beautiful
Music and readings, no Wachet auf,
No choral perfection, no mince pies.
He will come, shattering the baubles
We hold dear, searing us with the touch
Of truth’s cold blade.
He will come shaking the tree
Of our bauble-hung life.
Hatching from the shards
Like blinking, naked chickens we will come
Disorientated to his clear light,
His forgiving judgement,
Who holds our tiny worlds like baubles
In long-suffering hands, until he comes
To work his new creation white-hot
From his furnace of change,
He, the Light undying.

 

tRuth 2019

 

image © Anne Roberts/flickr CC BY-NC-SA 2.0