The Gift

You came to us in poorest kind,
No fanfare, flourish, or applause.
Your birthplace, crude and unrefined;
Your virtue outweighed all its flaws.

Yet those from polar social tiers:
The working class and learned men,
Heeded signs that in heav’n appeared,
That they might speak their own amen.

The other worlds watched hushed, in awe
That their Creator and their Lord
Would lie upon a bed of straw,
A helpless babe, by most ignored.

To welcome God’s own Son, no feast,
No esteemed guests to sing His praise;
The long-lost children of the East
Brought tributes which His life conveyed:

The gold acknowledged royalty,
Its value did befit a King;
The wise men’s humble loyalty
Did threaten Herod’s glorying.

The frankincense, a fragrant part
Of sacred mixtures that were burned
In Your own temple’s Holy heart,
While Your priestly role was adjourned.

A poignant final gift to You,
Which pointed to Your purpose, grave:
Myrrh would your burial robes imbue,
Once You had died, this world to save.

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Two thousand years or so have passed
Since You came down from heav’n to earth,
Your gift to us is unsurpassed:
You gave Your life to show our worth.

Yet now we celebrate a date
That certainly marked not Your birth,
And many do commemorate
With opulence, excess and mirth.

Exchanging gifts, oft rashly bought,
Indulging in all worldly joys;
The day may pass without a thought
Or reflection, amidst the noise,

On what the angels did declare:
“Glory to God and peace to all.”
What beauty in that simple prayer,
Made as You slept inside that stall.

Our hearts have lost the central theme
That should frame each day of our lives:
That love for You should reign supreme
And motivate us to decide

To treat each person as one’s self
And humbly give of what we own,
Regarding not prestige or wealth
Above the ideal you have shown.

Please help me Lord, to ne’er forget
The precious gift You gave to me,
To cherish it and better yet:
Share it with all, whole-heartedly.