Each Christmastide we think nostalgically
About the baby born so long ago,
So far away. We dwell on what we know
So well — the mother smiling wearily,
The sage and shepherd there to see,
The husband, angels, and a star to show
The special stature of the child below.
But not alone to distant scenery
Does Christ belong, nor yet to prophecy
Still unfulfilled. Christ comes each day and walks
Among his churches, searching heart and mind,
Calling us away from our iniquity.
He stands outside the door and knocks,
New incarnations in our hearts to find.

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