If beauty is but a mirage,

It is the cruelest of hoaxes:

A reminder of our deep thirst.

A fiendish hallucination…

As the snowflake fell,

The Light danced through it.

Nothing was created.

The Light was always there,

I sit and ponder the manger:

Made of decaying material,

Insignificant in itself,

But designed for God’s purposes…

The Son of God humbled Himself,

Beginning His earthly life as a babe,

Making Himself completely dependent upon,

And allowing Himself to rest in

The very hands He had created.

Lord, I say, “thank You” all the time.

Yet it often seems so hollow.

Maybe this year I need to say it with my life,

Instead of just my mouth.

We live

Where the fanfare of festive flushed fall foliage

Fascinates the frolicking

Where bright blossoms blazing brilliance and beauty

I am Peter the Fisherman.

His past is mine:

That of self-reliance;

That of religious emptiness.

As I kneel in submission

Before your throne, O God

There, I see the worst of me

Yet there, I am the best I can be.

All is love of untold measure.

All are gifts of lavish cost.

All is life, lived in His stead.

All is grace through His great loss.

Traversing the well-trod dirt road to my parents’ home,

I am enraptured by the canopy of trees. 

Their long, majestic lines sway in unison.

Their shimmering toddler-hands greet me relentlessly. 

For ages, I felt entitled to the care of the Shepherd.

At the same time, I denied His authority over my life.

So, when I saw Him willingly give His life to rescue mine,

His sacrifice gave this sheep completely new eyes.