Monday, December 5, 2011

Fortelling Told

A river begins
beneath mountain
glaciers and snow,
seeps down
broken, colden,
cracken stone,
gathers deep below,

in music unheard
into subterrainian pools
in echoing caves,
from level to level,
sings a private song,
gathers unto itself
as it falls,

grows larger underground
in its own history,
brooding over a broke
drunken valley of children,

but by mountain dwellers
along his sacred banks,
prophets who slake thirst
or wash in its flowing

who saw first,
thousands of years ago
the unborn Messiah,
Lamb Of God,
slain from before
rock pools formed rivers
on any planet,
under any star,
in the foundations
of the world.

They knew
little Bethlehem’s glory,
a virgin with a baby,
they heard cries
of innocents slain,
weeping mothers--
find all this in their ancient poems--

prophets who saw
sacrifice, shame, and salvation,
rejoiced in the resurrection,
entered by faith
the past and future kingdom
with bathers and dwellers,
redeemed of all time,
who drink of these sacred
Christmas waters.

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