“. . . For Who Can Endure the Day of His Coming?”–Malachi 3:2
When an Angel
snapped the old thin threads of speech
with an untimely birth
the seemly cloth of an even
more blessed event with the
shears of miracle,
invaded the privacy of a dream,
to ravage the dark silk of the sky, the
with swords of sound: news in a new dimension demanded
The righteous were as vulnerable as others.
they trembled for those strong
antecedent fear nots, whether goat-
herds, virgins, workers in wood or
holy barren priests.
In our nights our
complicated modern dreams rarely
flower into visions. No
dumbfounds our worship, or burning,
visits our bedrooms. No
sign-post satellite hauls us, earth-bound but
around the world with hope.
Are our sensibilities
too blunt to be assaulted
with spatial power-plays and far-out
proclamations of peace? Sterile,
skeptics, yet we may be broken
to his slow silent birth
born ourselves at his
beginning new in us).
His bigness may still burst
to tell us—without angels’ mouths—
God knows we need to hear it, now
when he may shatter
with his most shocking coming
this proud cracked place
and more if, for longer waiting,
he does not.–Luci Shaw
Photography by Melissa Thomas. Taken in Rome, Italy. Used with permission.