Christmas

Twas somewhere, sometime, long ago

Before the myths would start to grow.

A child was born, a Nazarene-

But this was not a Christmas scene.

Against intended circumstance-

A child who hardly stood a chance-

Without the love that ought to be

Was hidden so they wouldn’t see.

His mother tragically abused-

Regretting she had been so used,

Her husband, such a righteous man

Would love this child as his own clan.

What child is this? To understand

When things don’t go the way they’re planned

That love exists to guide you through

So sin won’t get the best of you.

Forgiven with sincerity

Adopted father’s clarity

He’d never lose where he came from

And listen to a different drum.

This life that knew no boundaries made-

Divinity- the hand he played-

Rejected by the fear in men-

But love as his would rise again.

John H. Bidwell