Lord, come into the manger:

The heart walking cold under the waning moon,
spurning the bright lights of Christmas decorations,
repelled by indifference and hypocrisy;

The heart buried under numbing snow,
white winding sheet of sorrow, too weak to see
the green fir twigs as a symbol of hope;

The heart burned to ashen grief
by the lights on the Christmas tree
laden with memories of bliss destroyed;

The heart hardened to love withheld,
turning from presents with clutched fists,
discarding grace as a fable;

The heart sunk in reckless hate,
shattering the distant whisperings
of a starlit sky not to be grasped;

The heart driven naked through the streets of loneliness,
hiding from the raucous laughter of celebrations,
the cozy lit windows meant for others:

Lord, come into the manger.