The Child’s Hand
I know not when these days were planned,
Nor stars aligned, nor whom made man,
’Til what was deemed reveal’d to be:
A little Child came to me.
As fair; as dark; as maiden; lad;
Moreso than I, knew what I had
Without a touch, but sure embrace
Convinced me of my sense of place:
From which Source flows: my love, my light
That boldly flares—illumines night.
Self-blinded—I at times can’t see;
That Child’s hand just waits for me.
While asking not for gift, nor pledge
What He does ask—my faint heart’s hedge:
For those whose wants my own exceed,
Extend—my—hand to those in need.
And lo, at this, our Christmastide
My Source compels me to abide.
As Son brings light to darkened land,
I gently grasp the Child’s hand.
Stephen Bolles
All rights reserved
12/19/13