If breeze still, and rooftops white
drifts in the new day’s radiant beams,
the place is pleasant and mute, hushed.
Between Avenue and Street, East -West
who has the wisdom to count the clouds?*
Who can tip over the water jars of heaven?*
Begetter again this day, gives birth to frost*
Out of the North He comes in golden splendor.*
Through doors, the plans unknown, minutes counted
One window to the world, hope; peace; offered.
Echoes bespeak through song, prayer, and Word
Hebdomadal the banner continues true and firm
Once, understood by all people a sanctuary strong*
Sins stains it steps where wine and bread make clean.
A scepter comes from Zion, interrupting doubts.
A birth, Bethlehem’s stall, makes shepherds quake*
and angels sing. Source of light, still for all.
I priest. Vestment worn, ripped, yet bright.
Healing in its wings. Tears made perfervid.
And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us,
and we beheld his glory….*
(*Job 38:29,37, 37:22, Ps 114:2, Silent Night. Holy Night Stanza 3. Jn 1:14)