by Kyle Lehman
We wake to sleep, we breathe to cry.
Our mothers dreamed and brought us forth to die;
For every cradle opens up a grave,
And every child is one we cannot save.
The light fades from the western skies;
Fear casts us down before we rise.
Your cradle too will one day be a grave;
Your life is one the Father will not save.
Nu mai e slava.
But birthed tonight with beast and bird and tree,
Your advent breaks all broken spirits free.
Your curled fist will punch the devil’s face;
Your heel, though crushed, will put him in his place.
Your tiny sob makes all the heavens black.
Your light goes forth to bring all children back.
Aceasta e Glorie.
Back from the sorrows our own hands espouse,
Back to a home hearth in your Father’s house.
Photo by Kenneth Godoy