My Gift

What gift can I bring you Lord,

My hands are empty.

Yet, still I search,

the darkness of this night,

My hand pressed upon,

the frost bitten glass.

My gift melts upon these

fingertips as flakes

of snow,

It folds,

Into the earth

As a sodden leaf.

*

Once golden brilliance

upon the gilded branch,

Of another time.

These words that I offer are,

But a child's prayer,

For anything more is too wonderful for me,

to grasp,

and hold, wrap up,

and keep.

In shiny paper, or a musical box,

Or make,

Or own,

Or know.

Maybe you want no other gift,

But these empty hands of mine.

Cold and frozen

as they are,

You do not flinch,

from their touch.

I hear

Your voice in the soft breath of

dawn light,

The first stirring

of a sleeping babe.

In the vapor

of mist that rises,
From the water's edge,

I hear...

You say, You say

Hold out your

empty hands my child.

They are a gift,

your empty hands.

For only empty hands can

Cradle the babe,

Take mine in theirs to

follow my way.

Recieve the nails,

and cup

the Host,

Embrace

my Love,

Your hands

Enclose

All that I need,

Unwrapped, unclothed

Your poverty,

Your gift to me.

Your gift to me.