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A carpenter to a carpenter

Your trade was mine; your craft, I lay no claim to.
  I make my dealings square, which may suffice
  To brace as Augustine bid: Plain, free from vice,
I keep my spirit level, or I aim to;
To hold at length my temple from my bank,
  I render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,
  The splinter in my eye excise with tweezers,
And do the same, or try to, with the plank.
One job alone has robbed me of my slumber,
  Ordained by one I can’t refuse a task,
A simple job: Just two plain posts of lumber,
No inlay—No fine lacquerwork—No gilt.

kneeling at the Manger

staffs at their sides, hushed

mouths agape, reeking not
of frankincense and myrrh, but

of linseed oil, sulfur, pitch, and
tar, these rough men
stare, stunned
by My Son’s birth, shocked in

amazed gazing, at
Him

their faces though I recognize, they’re
the providers

of the Paschal lambs, at Passover

for the Temple, they breed and they
take from the ewes their firstborns to
bleed and suffer, sacrificed

to atone for Israel’s sin, but

when their shepherd eyes meet mine
I see on their adoring faces a

Silent night

The old tradition says
at Christ’s borning
there was utter silence.
The whole created world
was still. For an hour.
Even choirs of angels
went quiet.
It seems fitting
in the infant face
of incomprehensibility
to forego language,
sound, even song.
Into stille nacht
that tiny spark,
the Word, dropped
into kindling flesh,
set afire everything
we thought we knew
about God.

 

P.O. Box 117

When this letter reaches you, know
I have sent you Naaman, my servant,
that you may cure him of his leprosy.

                                  —II Kings 5:6