Beloved, you who hold the universe
in tender arms, who cradle galaxies,
whose call in darkness birthed forth light at first,
look on us now as only love’s eye sees.
Our fear has festered, and has found fair soil
in which to grow, bear fruit and choke our love,
so we in selfishness spread hurt, and spoil
the very world we’re so enamored of.
Yet this is yours. Each wound, each sin, each slight
you occupy with that same voice to call
forth grace, to heal, to birth new light.
The angels’ “news” is older than the Fall.
O you who love this world, in this world be,
in Mary, in the manger, and in me.