Bethlehem

It isn’t much—

a shelter from the rain.

From sorrow and pain it cannot shield

this little One.

He will know heartache, my thorns

will wear, my burdens bear,

my very own tears in future

years He promises

to wipe away.

And poor the pile

of damp and musty hay, and

short the sleep before His toil

and weariness, the journeys

through my wilderness

to seek and bring me home, to

give me rest.

This small offering—

it’s all I have,

the hovel of my heart.

“Not enough!” I would say.

But stay! The enchanted

eyes of Love alight here

in me, to somehow see

a palace and a throne.

I cannot fathom

nor explain Your ravished gaze,

one glance alone

leves me enthralled, amazed.

You will more than repose,

more than receive, You will

give Love all lavishly

outpoured: This pauper

is turned princess in the embrace

of her King and Lord.

Sr. Cecilia Francis, CFR