On The Last Day of Advent

I wrote this poem six years ago, thinking back to an event that happened in high school. I was driving through the desert between Grand Junction and Delta (CO), listening to music that was singing about “Immanuel”. Then it hit me: God is with us. Here and now. God is with us. And thus the poem.  Merry Christmas!


On the last day of Advent

How inexplicable is the joy that rushes over me,
bursting from all corners of my being, seeing
a twilight illuminated at last by bright sun
over the snow-dusted desert plateau,
shining brilliantly through a red stained glass ball,
which hangs on a pine tree next to this highway.

I’ve never felt so not completely alone.

Strings and choirs sing praises of this
magical mystical above all mysterious moment
when and where I felt and feel the majesty of
Incarnation fully realized for seemingly the first time,
in this torn tattered tainted heart of mine.

Never before have I been brought to tears
by the sheer joy that comes with comfort of agape.
Never again will we be separated by my hard-hearted
reluctance to step from shadows, for at last I know
the meaning of Immanuel.

And tonight, though the sun silently sets
on this solitary tree in the desert,
we will light the wreath’s fifth candle,
white wax and flame like the desert’s snow,
and celebrate the peace of advent.

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