​Sing ye, womb of Mary:
the capacious God
who contains all things
has formed into flesh
within your confines.
Your Yes to an angel’s word
brought forth God’s Word,
God unborn, then first-born,
the very Yes of God.

Sing ye, red-stained straw,
debris of common grass
cast into troughs
as feed for beasts.
You throw-aways became
a soft bed for the babe
to drop from the womb
and to know, “I am here!”

Sing ye, stable walls.
You recite forever
the mother’s birth-screams,
the baby’s howls,
the father’s tears.
A birth-place is a noisy
place, even for God.

          We sing with joy this night
          to welcome God’s Delight.
          ​Come all, come all,
          ​Come to his light.

I feared I would live alone,
unsoftened by a woman’s love.
Then she sang her song
into my crusted heart.
How could one so young and kind
love me, a man of hardened hands?
I imagined our days ahead:
marriage, daughters as fair as she,
sons to be workers of wood like me.
Only you, God, could work
such a wonder of love,
to wrap she and I
together for life.
I thanked you, God, every time
I looked into her eyes.

Then the unthinkable – pregnant!
How can this be?
The one I trusted is with child.
And her story!
That it was you who touched her womb;
that you are the life-giver
of her first-born, not me.
I, her betrothed, wasn’t needed.
I wasn’t needed to give her
our first-born child.
You and she have shamed me.
​
And now your Angel?
“Don’t be afraid to marry her,” he said.
God, wasn’t it enough
that I was betrayed?
That she made me an old fool?
Wasn’t it enough
for me to put her aside
and give her up without punishing her?
Now you ask too much of me.
Do you always give a gift in one hand
and a trial in the other?
I’ll take the gift of loving her as wife,
and I will do so with all my heart.
Help me to be as strong-hearted
with my Son,
the Son you’ve given us.

Early in time the womb of the world waited
in dark for the word spoken that would break light
over the waters and be called “day” and the soft setting
of light over the horizon that would be called “night”
the world's first morning and the world's first evening
and he stretched a canopy over the waters to keep the waters back
that girdled the earth above which the word of God labored
to shape and smooth an expanse in the evening black
and in the day glowing with light from a source unseen
he drew the waters back from the earth’s heart
and up from the ground sprung grasses thick and green
and fruits of fruit-bearing trees both sweet and tart
and called it dry land and above it
deep within the expanse he gave the sun
guardianship of the day’s light and made moon and stars
and gave the rule of the night to every one
and took to the sea and filled it to his delight
with creatures that varied in size and shape infinitely
and taking the wind that circled the earth
he fashioned a creature that could sail it freely
and turned the next day again to the dry land to work
beasts and creeping things for the freshborn land
then fashioned his own likeness out of the dust of the earth
and breathed his own breath into him, and named him “Man.”

“How did it happen?” asked the olive oil merchant at the market.

“Did illness take his voice?” asked the baker from behind a display of loaves.

“Did he swallow something cursed?” asked the goatherd, selling butter and cheese.

“It was an angel,” Elizabeth explained. “An angel in the temple.”

“An angel?” asked the spice dealer. “How do you know?”

“I knew it even before he opened his mouth. When he came back from the temple, he had the shining of Moses about him, but in a frightful way. He didn’t eat for three days.”

Indeed, because fear of angels is not enough to cure a soul, I went mute. When I opened my mouth, my throat did not work. My breath was dry. For nine months and nine days I shaped no word with my tongue. I learned to wave and point. I made good use of a tablet and chalk. I was reduced to an infant, except for the fact that even my weeping was without sound. Such was the price of standing in the Holy Place with a doubting heart.

At first, I was trapped in shock. Who was the high priest Zechariah without a voice? What good was the wisdom of my years without a tongue?

Soon, I gave up. I did not even scrawl letters with chalk. If I could have shaped a sound, I would have moaned and moaned. My whole being was a silent, wallowing complaint.

After some days, though, I noticed a strange thing. The low cackling of the morning fire, the gentle pouring of water—I had begun to hear these things in a different way. And the voices of people became more than mere chatter. They took on life: the neighbors’ children playing, priests reciting Torah, Elizabeth’s small laughter.

“My love,” whispered Elizabeth one morning, pressing my hand to her aproned middle. She was carrying our child. The veil of silence did not lift, but in that moment, it changed. In that moment, I knew the Silencer and the Giver were one and the same.
​
And so I learned to wait. There was much to wait for: the coming of our child and the hoped-for coming back of my voice. The wonder of it, which emerged like the slow unveiling of a mountain shrouded in mist, was that somehow none of this was about me. It was not about us. What I mean is, something was dawning. Someone greater than Moses was coming, and it seemed my silence was strangely announcing his advent. Messiah was not far. In the cavern of my silence, the Word who spoke into being all that is and was and ever will be was preparing to speak.

* * *
​

​* * *
​

* * *
​

Light stretches,
rolling out across the land,
warming the face of the earth,
raising a gentle breeze,
soft upon our skin.

Robin and rooster proclaim the morning,
stirring us
to joy of day.

A glow shines
from the heart of the garden,
drawing,
summoning,
growing in
radiant splendor
until it outshines the risen sun, and
the whole garden blazes with glory.
Our heart leaps.

For You come,
descending in all Your fullness.
Sand melts to
sapphire glass
beneath Your feet.

The host heaven assembles all around.
Your voice rushes through the garden
a thundering waterfall:
​
          “I take the earth to be My kingdom,
          the image bearer to be the steward of my rule.
          I set my throne in Eden,
          the place of my rest.”

A chorus rises all around,
as all the host of heaven proclaim:

          “Holy, holy, holy is the Eternal One,
          Yahweh Almighty!
          The whole earth is full of Your glory!”

We bow in the dust of the earth,
face to clay:

          “You have created all things.
          Worthy, worthy, worthy is our God and King
          to receive all worship,
          for in You we live and
                    move and
                              have our being.”

Your voice pours over us,
a rushing stream:

“Rise, my child, image-bearer.”

We rise and look You full in the face.
Your face!
Radiant beauty from which all others echo.
Eyes that see straight to the depths of our soul.
Ears that hear the faintest whispers of our heart.
Mouth that speaks mountains,
subdues seas,
kindles stars,
and anoints us
bearers of that image.

Rapt we stand,
a moment, a day, a thousand years,
who can say?
Glory inexhaustible--
what time could suffice to behold it?
Before You, a diamond of infinite facets
would hold no allure.

You speak:

          “Be fruitful and multiply!
          Fill the earth and subdue it.
          For My kingdom is your kingdom,
          My rule, your rule.
          Where you dwell, I will dwell,
          and in Me you will find your rest
          ​as you carry out My rule on the earth.”