Christmas



I.
You asked me when my God had died,
I said, "Why, on the day of Atonement."
Yet we both knew, that deeper still,
the question lay unanswered.

You asked me when my God did rise,
I said, "Why, three days after Calvary."
The answer came as winsome as
those Sunday mornings I did not go to church.

You asked me who my God had saved,
I said, "Why, sinners all around us."
Straight in your eye I looked,
but saw no damnation there.

You asked me when my God had come,
"Why, Christmas Day - but you knew that."
When would He come?
"No date is set."

Will I be there?
"I do not know."
Will you be there?
"I dare not go."

II.
You asked me when my God had died,
I should have said, "Why, when I lied
Lied that I believed in Him,
While in my heart I knew not Him."

You asked me when my God did rise,
I should have said, "I must admit,
Admit that though they say He did,
I struggle to believe in it."

You asked me who my God had saved,
I should have said, "Sinners who believe,
Believe in He. Sinners who believe,
Who are not me."

You asked me when my God had come,
I answered, "Did He ever?"
You asked me when would He come?
I asked, "Will He ever?"

Will I be there?
You asked, insistent as ever.
I sighed, "If your faith does not falter."
Will you be there?
That's when I wept;

I wept, "No, I fear never."

- Amelia



Amelia used to write all the time but one day stopped. Now she's trying to find her voice again, no matter how unremarkable or commonplace it may seem among the crowd. Her poems are part of a yearlong project to hit 100 pieces of writing - the hope is that in seeking quantity, somehow, quality will be found too.

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