As the winter solstice settles,
A dark December's eventide,
The hopes and fears of all the years,
Are prayers breathed and denied.
Where the advent in times of war?
And the healing of what divides?
A candle lit upon a wreath,
A light burns still in places dark.
Which hints of perfect peace to come,
In cynic times a hope will spark.
Among the poorest of the poor,
The story goes something like this,
A nowhere place, when it was time,
A human cub chose to exist,
And God with us in times of woe,
A love story that does persist.
Another flame burns with the first,
A wreath half crowned in simple faith,
In pitch black incandescence seeps,
Life to them who walk as wraith.
And those who live outside the walls,
With sight suited to dark midnight,
Are first to see the seraph mirth,
Stars and sorrows eclipsed in light,
Sweet that succor will first comfort,
Those empty handed, and contrite.
The wreath now nearly all aglow,
A third wick lit, blackens and burns,
Still solace flames to souls beckon,
Joys will answer for which we yearn.
And all who live in places dark,
Seek the song of the Seraphim,
That Advent peace — and Advent love,
May fill the trunk and every limb,
That darkness will not overcome,
That earth will team in Holy hymn.
The candles burn, four then five,
Fear and trembling and quiet awe.
The center flame within the wreath,
Avows the end of tooth and claw.
Birth of peace,
In the Advent,
of the light,
of the Christ,
Child.
