The blanket of the evening’s dark falls silently upon the ground,
As branches reach against the sky, a frame before the starry night –
The brightness of the streets has fled, the sidewalks now by lamplight crowned;
With daylight’s vision pared to glowing circles of the lesser light.
In Bethlehem the lesser lights once paled before the Morning Star,
Who spilled His Light and spilled His blood upon the Dark of mortal hearts.
No feeble glow, His morning fell on dim-lit landscapes near and far,
Immortal balm to cure the ills untouched by any human arts.
Though silently the Gift is giv’n, the Light of Heaven blazes bright,
The Morning Star gives Life and Joy; eternal triumph o’er the Night.
Copyright © 2018 David B. Hawthorne