A Strange Kind of Glory

A poem about what love can look like

Photo by Jill Sauve on Unsplash

This is a love poem about Christmas. Which is fair, because Christmas is a love poem in itself.

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A STRANGE KIND OF GLORY

[Italicized lines are from the first chapter of the Gospel According to John]


In the beginning was the Word.
	A baby sleeps on an armful of straw
	in a shack at the edge of the city,
	waking to blink in the starlight
	while strange visitors come and go.

And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us.
	A weathered man feeds a hungry crowd
	with bread and fish and stories,
	rough voice singing over lake and hillside,
	callused hands warm on bodies in pain.
	
And we have seen his glory.
	An emptied corpse sags
	on a gallows at the edge of the city.
	An improbable guest embraces his friends
	with scarred, familiar hands.

The Word became flesh, and we have seen his glory.
	Flesh is a strange kind of glory – 
	drumbeats, thirst, the scent of ripe oranges,
	skin on skin, the flinch away from pain – 
	a smelly, curious, wishful glory.
	Courageous, sometimes. Mortal, every day.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
	Because loving someone
	asks to be where they are –
	to guard their sleep,
	to share their breakfast,
	to breathe their breath and taste their tears.

And we have seen his glory.
	The strange glory of Flesh,
	the living glory of Word,
	the everyday glory of Love come to find us
	and be with us, here where we are.

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[You can listen to an audio version of this poem using the little widget above the photograph.]

This poem, shaped over the past few weeks, is based on an essay that I wrote seventeen years ago. It’s an object lesson in why writers hoard their documents, and a witness to how captivated I am and always have been by the notion of God With Us.

An upcycled, re-gifted Christmas present, wrapped as creatively as I’m able. For you. I hope the season brings you whatever light and love you most need.