Thine advent here XV

So I missed a day.  As I heard no disgruntled outcry from my extensive readership, I will assume that all of you are a pretty gracious bunch who also know what it means to get busy around Christmas time.  Anyway, I will reward y'all with a tale today...I think... if I am not too busy, which I might be.  Nevertheless, I will share with you yet another poem from A Widening Light: Poems of the Incarnation, a book all of you ought to purchase for yourselves (can you tell I am worried about the copyright police coming to get me, so I want to be clear that what I am actually doing is drumming up business for them?).  

The risk of birth

This is no time for a child to be born,

With the earth betrayed by war and hate

And a nova lighting the sky to warn

That time runs out and the sun burns late.

That was no time for a child to be born,

In a land in the crushing grip of Rome;

Honour and truth were trampled by scorn--

Yet here did the Saviour make his home.

When is the time for love to be born?

The inn is full on planet earth,

And by greed and pride the sky is torn--

Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

Madeleine L'Engle

Love is risky, indeed.  Try it sometime, especially when it means being more like a baby than a "competent adult," whatever that is.