Poems Ai'd

 Christmas Poem

A King Is Born to Us Today

A King is born to us today.
"Ha! Where in the world?" we ask the way.
In fear we wander through the night,
Searching, peering, squinting for the light.
But where, O where, is our Jesus?

Death stalks the night, musty and cold.
Around each tenement, darkness grows bold.
Women in the streets with nothing to hide,
Men are lured and broken by desire and pride.
But where, O where, is our Jesus?

Homeless men sleep in cardboard boxes,
Hopelessly shuffling from street to street.
Forlorn, they beg a stranger for alms,
Living in filth, as once He lay in a manger.
But where, O where, is our Jesus?

Hospital beds are filled with despair.
Patients, without hope, out the window stare.
Each passing day the pain grows stronger;
Relief seems distant, waiting ever longer.
But where, O where, is our Jesus?

The rich man's Ferrari gleams in the sun,
His Armani suit impeccably worn.
Life by the sea in perfect display,
Every step, every glance carefully arranged.
But where, O where, is our Jesus?

Before the dawn the working man rises,
Sleepy and weary, he silently trudges.
To a thankless job he faithfully goes,
Spending to live, with little to show.
Long are the hours, and small is the reward.
But where, O where, is our Jesus?

Put faith upon the lips of the sinner.

The plight of man—original sin—
Fills us with sorrow from deep within.
Our lives are burdened with grief and pain,
Longing for treasures we never attain.
When our paths grow dim and our vision blurs,
Where, O where, are You, O Jesus?

Upon the rubble of despair stand:

The homeless man.
The hospital man.
The addict.
The broken family.
The rich man.
The working man.

All are looking through the window of despair.

Yet Christ is not absent.

He is with the homeless in the cold.
He is beside the sick in the night.
He walks with the worker before the dawn.
He calls the sinner to repentance.
He humbles the rich and lifts the poor.

The Child of Bethlehem still comes to us,
Not in palaces, but in hearts that seek Him.

So let us not ask only,

"Where, O where, is our Jesus?"

For Christmas answers:

He is here.

 

The Mirror of Man

What fearful, screaming place of awe—
This earth, this dust, where we are born.
We journey through this fateful life,
Still striving ever, yet forlorn.
We grasp at things both known and strange,
And find ourselves by pride outworn.

I gaze into the mirror, seeking
A face of faith to look on me;
Yet only shadows meet my eyes,
Their promise fading endlessly.
My hope is scattered like the wind,
Until a Savior searches me.

Perhaps the One I longed to find
Had sought my wandering soul instead.
This very day He called my name
And raised my heart once thought to be dead.
The Shepherd found His straying lamb
And gently home my footsteps led.

The despair of man lies now defeated;
The nights of hopelessness have passed.
My God stooped down to meet me here,
A love too boundless to outlast.
I gaze into the mirror now
And see my faith reflected fast.

For there I find my living Christ—
My Jesus: loving, glorious, magnificent.

The Glint in My Eye

The glint in my eye—that precious hope:
Jesus comes someday.

The glint on my hands, found in work and in play.

The glint of the moon, as I write
Through quiet shadows of gray.

The glint on the road
Reveals the paths of dismay.

The glint of my sin
Would send me to hell, they say.

The glint of forgiveness—
My sins cast far away.

The glint in my soul
Still longs to repay.

The glint in my heart
Knows there is no way.

The glint of God's mercy,
So boundless each day.

The glint of heaven's jewels,
Its streets of gold on display.

And the glint of my hope
That my precious Jesus comes today.

Death's Door

Death's door swings open wide,
For we must enter, our feet to slide.
Beyond the vale we come to find
Young and old, short and tall, all in line.

Our journey through life is full of despair,
Toiling with weary hands, repairing with care.
Sickness approaches at every turn;
Another simple breath we fail to earn.

At times we live with hearts so joyous:
A baby born, a wedding glorious.
Strolling through fields of amber grain,
Skipping through puddles in a Spanish rain.

A delicate balance of lows and highs,
Falling, stumbling, then reaching the skies.
How can we live in a world so indifferent,
Where at every turn men grow belligerent?

Heavy is Death's Door, darkly tinted,
Its ancient wood with splinters weather-wrinkled.
Many are the souls that passed this way,
Never to return, forever and a day.

The door now leisurely closes;
One final gasp the truth discloses:
We cannot halt it in the end—
Eternity in heaven or hell we'll spend.

The choice lies plain for all to hear,
To choose while living, not ruled by fear.
The path decided forevermore—
Oh, stop! Creaking, closing, relentless door!

The final glimpse of life we keep,
A few inches more as our loved ones weep.
Has the tempting harlot claimed our soul,
Leading us far from the One made whole?

The door now shuts—not with a slam,
But the quiet, sighing hush of a lamb.
A lifelong journey through love and hate;
Beyond the vale we await our fate.