A POEM for Christmas by Rev Dr Frances Henderson, of Lockerbie Dryfesdale, Hutton, Corrie and Applegarth Parish.
It’s entitled Little Town:
While they were in Bethlehem, the time came for Mary to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. (Luke 2:6-7)
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.
Or was it more like packed pubs spilling onto the street at closing time,
tourists the worse for wear, soldiers singing filthy songs?
Did anyone get much sleep that night?
Silent night, holy night.
I bet Mary wasn’t silent, though, just a kid herself to be giving birth.
I bet Joseph kept up a string of useless words: You can do it. You’re going to be okay.
And as for the Little Lord Jesus – we all start life’s journey with a cry.
But maybe there was a moment, when the baby, fed and warm,
settled at last in his mother’s arms.
Maybe there was a holy moment of almost-silence,
when all you could hear outside was the yowl of a cat,
and a lone drunk singing quietly to himself.
Maybe, before the shepherds turned up, there was no sound in the stable at all
but the shuffling of the cow’s feet and her low murmur to her calf.
Holy noise. Holy silence.
Christmas can be one. Or the other. Or both.
