Eternity Cradled in Time
Blog / Produced by The High Calling
Three years ago last September, my wife and I visited Israel with other members of our church in Bellingham, Washington. Those quiet, worshipful moments in Israel remain fresh in my mind—halcyon days before the country’s uneasy peace began to disintegrate.
Luci and I saw Bethlehem just ten days before Ariel Sharon visited the Temple Mount. From that moment, the violence hasn’t stopped. But for our time in Bethlehem, as in the carol, all was calm. That Christmas, as breaking news of more trouble swept international headlines, I wrote this poem.
Eternity Cradled in Time
This moment now, when Before turns into After,
the vast and heavy door of Time
swings on its fulcrum silently,
To open vistas of a new, strange land.
A fresh breeze blows across the grazing fields of Bethlehem.
The scent of heaven rests
Upon the nostrils of the waiting wise.
Old Simeon stirs in sleep
And for a moment time stands still.
The Babe who woke the stars and flung their course,
smells straw and earthy dung.
Shepherds shuffle and stamp their feet for cold,
not quite sure what to say,
how to take in this deeper Glory
after the Angel fright.
I duck my head to enter
The Church of the Nativity.
(Crusaders lowered the lintel to five feet
“to teach us humility.”)
Far away, an angry shout, stones thrown.
A burst of rifle fire.
Suddenly, vividly, His gift of Forgiveness,
relevant this instant,
beyond all doubt,
as Before turns into Now.
Luci and I saw Bethlehem just ten days before Ariel Sharon visited the Temple Mount. From that moment, the violence hasn’t stopped. But for our time in Bethlehem, as in the carol, all was calm. That Christmas, as breaking news of more trouble swept international headlines, I wrote this poem.
Eternity Cradled in Time
This moment now, when Before turns into After,
the vast and heavy door of Time
swings on its fulcrum silently,
To open vistas of a new, strange land.
A fresh breeze blows across the grazing fields of Bethlehem.
The scent of heaven rests
Upon the nostrils of the waiting wise.
Old Simeon stirs in sleep
And for a moment time stands still.
The Babe who woke the stars and flung their course,
smells straw and earthy dung.
Shepherds shuffle and stamp their feet for cold,
not quite sure what to say,
how to take in this deeper Glory
after the Angel fright.
I duck my head to enter
The Church of the Nativity.
(Crusaders lowered the lintel to five feet
“to teach us humility.”)
Far away, an angry shout, stones thrown.
A burst of rifle fire.
Suddenly, vividly, His gift of Forgiveness,
relevant this instant,
beyond all doubt,
as Before turns into Now.
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