“The Whip of Advent” by Tristan Gylberd

 The pitch of thestall was glorious
Though the straw wasdusty and old
Though it blew bitterand cold
The wind sang with orchestral beauty
The night wasmysteriously gleaming
Though the earth wasfallen, forlorn
For under the eavesof splendor
A child-The Child-wasborn
Oxen Sheep and doves
Crowded roundNativity’s scene
Though the worldstill failed to grasp
T’was here that peacehad been
Cast out into a cave
When no room wasfound for Him
His coming was ascourge
That cleansed arobber’s den
While the Temple’sbecome a cattle stall
Where beasts and suchare sold
The Child’s turnedManger into Temple
And changed the baseto gold
Tis the paradox ofthe ages:
Worldly wisdom willne’re relent
To notice signs ofvisitation
Nor the cords of thewhip of Advent

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