I hardly ever attempt to write poetry - as will become obvious. However on Sunday, which was still within the Christmas season, I was provoked to do so. Over the past year one of my joys, of which there have been a number, has been regular engagement with a church which lives out the good news to the marginalised in a way that I find resonates with my understanding of Christ, or, if you prefer, real love. So here it is.
Child of our time, God of eternity,
pity our dreadful extremity
terrors of plague, horrors of war
refugees drown, glaciers melt.
nurses and carers drop
peacemakers killed
mindless mobs follow demagogues
down self-interest’s hell hill
Child of single girl, God of humanity,
here in our world, knowing infirmity,
looks with compassion
where we dare not look.
he does not turn away
from society’s prey
holds the hand of men dying of Aids
hugs the child who daren’t say she’s gay
Child of our flesh, God of infinity,
here in our pain, knowing fragility,
walks through the brambles
where we dare not go.
he does not avoid
the depths of our fears
nightly he sits in the cell on death row
watches with the widow in tears
Child of seeking, God of identity,
at home in the halls of complexity,
and muddy streets of poverty
yet homeless himself
careless of debate
he embraces all
colours and children, beggars or rich,
‘love, love,’ is his call.
Child of the world, God of diversity,
silenced not by all our perversity
speaks through autistic girls,
old men in suits and in robes.
Christ, give us eyes to see
your compassion to be
in our streets where you are, aching to bless
with our presence his beloved.
11th January 2021
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| Sculpture Safe in His Hand by Sarah Lomas |
