The Gift

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Whilst gathering Christmas photos,
Ingesting sugar stuffs,
Of garlands hung with stockings,
And tots with ne’er enough.

I’m wistful in my silence,
And laughing low, I sigh,
As scars of scrapes and tumbles
pale, with church chimes nigh.

Alone at midnight’s wakening,
I’m watchful for the sign
of holy incarnation,
Redemption can be mine.

The flurry of the season oft’ clouds the meaning true:
The plain and sacred God-Son’s arrival makes us new.

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