Triptych of the Lamb - Home for the Holidays

Home for the Holidays

“Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by His blood.”
Revelation 5:12-14

At first, the snow falls fine,
A dusting in the darkness,
Drifting like glittering white tears,
Shed from the blinking eyes of silver stars, and
Chased down through a deep black night
To a city in waiting below.

By the time the sun has risen
To chase the darkness of this black night away,
The earth is coated completely
In a comforter of thick white down that
Blurs sharp lines,
Creating softened shapes,
Weird white landscapes,
Anonymous mounds that twinkle,
Pristine,
Shining
In the soft clear light of a brand new morn.

Soon children chase each other through the park,
Flopping to the ground in down snowsuits of
Pink and red and white,
Their limbs flutter in counterfeit flight
Of snow angels,
Hovering ‘round a single form on the park bench beyond.
Hidden from their sight,
A pale blue hand extends from out the glittering white,
To clutch the knotted handles of her bags,
Crumpled brown paper soaked and sagged,
Stuffed full with the frigid treasures of a lost fight.

Sprawled across the stone steps of subway stairs,
His head leans gently against the stained enamel walls,
His empty eyes stare out at three Shepherds,
Who howl now at their frosty find.
His hands, awash in dirt and grime,
Stiffly clutch the seams of his tattered coat,
A futile attempt to trap the dreams so long escaped,
Like smoke,
Into the cold night air.

Three blue riders on massive chestnut mounts
Face in to block the entrance to the alleyway,
Their horses’ hooves paw well-worn stone
In impatient homage to a crumpled form.
Nestled in a cold dark niche the faded brick
Has carved in an obscure corner
Of the concrete heart of a city of stone and glass,
Lay the body of the teenage boy, Emanuel.
His shoulders slump against the hard wooden door,
His long pale arms are splayed out wide.
His calloused knuckles nudge the ancient oak.
The hollow hypodermic nails his wrist,
As if to pin him to the planks,
A shroud of snow wound ‘round his lifeless form.

Soft sunlight sneaks silently over blue shoulders
To fall at last
Upon his cold grey face.
Snowflakes,
Trapped in the tangles of his chestnut hair,
Slow melt,
Bead upon his alabaster brow,
Then roll down the sides of his broken nose
Around his muted lips,
To drip
Off the cleft of his chin,
To puddle
In a cold damp patch on his soiled tee shirt,
Just above the cleft
Of his broken heart.

Yet, not so very distant from the alleyway,
The park bench
And the stone of subway stairs,
Not so very distant
As real is from distant dreams,
Feint strains of carols stream beneath church doors.
Lighted trees in cathedrals glitter Silver and Gold,
Sprigs of holly decorate high vaulted halls.
The smell of evergreen,
Of gingerbread and
Frankincense and Myrrh,
Ancient symbols of suffering,
Of sacrifice,
Rise into the air.

It is on this day
We put aside all care.
For it is Christmas Day,
And He has come home,
At last,
For His Birthday.


“Lord when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?” Matthew 25: 44