Advent XXII

by Kyle Lehman

We wake to sleep, we breathe to cry.
Our mothers dreamed and brought us forth to die;
For every cradle opens up a grave,
And every child is one we cannot save.

The light fades from the western skies;
Fear casts us down before we rise.
Your cradle too will one day be a grave;
Your life is one the Father will not save.

I-Cabod.
Nu mai e slava.

But birthed tonight with beast and bird and tree,
Your advent breaks all broken spirits free.
Your curled fist will punch the devil’s face;
Your heel, though crushed, will put him in his place.

Your tiny sob makes all the heavens black.
Your light goes forth to bring all children back.

Glorie, Glorie.
Aceasta e Glorie.

Back from the sorrows our own hands espouse,
Back to a home hearth in your Father’s house.

Glorie, Glorie.
Adevarata Glorie!

Photo by Kenneth Godoy