As cattle low and donkeys bray,A worried man begins to pray.“She’s weary, Lord, and birth pains loom,We need an Inn, but none have room.”A stable with a bed of hayAffords them with a place to stay.She lies amongst the bleating sheep –Where there she finds no peace for sleep.The hour of our Savior’s birthSweet angel voices sing His worth,While Satan howls – himself, enragedIn knowing that a war’s been wagedA war the Babe Himself will win –To free us from our senseless sin.Beneath the sacred star-lit night,How silent was that holy night?
(C) Marie Elena Good, 2010
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