Advent 2025, December 5 - I did not know this poem by Lucy Shaw

. . . who died recently at 95. 

IT IS AS IF INFANCY WERE THE WHOLE OF INCARNATION

by Luci Shaw

One time of the year

the new-born child

is everywhere,

planted in madonnas’ arms

hay mows, stables

in palaces or farms,

or quaintly, under snowed gables,

gothic angular or baroque plump,

naked or elaborately swathed,

encircled by Della Robia wreaths,

garnished with whimsical

partridges and pears,

drummers and drums,

lit by oversize stars,

partnered with lambs,

peace doves, sugar plums,

bells, plastic camels in sets of three

as if these were what we need

for eternity.

But Jesus the Man is not to be seen.

We are too wary, these days,

of beards and sandalled feet.

Yet if we celebrate, let it be

that he

has invaded our lives with purpose,

striding over our picturesque traditions,

our shallow sentiment,

overturning our cash registers,

wielding his peace like a sword,

rescuing us into reality

demanding much more

than the milk and the softness

and the mother warmth

of the baby in the storefront creche,

(only the Man would ask

all, of each of us)

reaching out

always, urgently, with strong

effective love

(only the Man would give

his life and live

again for love of us).

Oh come, let us adore him—

Christ—the Lord.