A night of shadow,
silhouetted dark,
heavy atmosphere
snuffs the spark
from flint and pyrite
in calloused hands
that shake with cold
as he stands
to pace again
to where she lay
in writhing pain
upon the hay.
He cannot give her
heat nor light
nor shoulder the pain
for her respite
nor shield her
from that fatality
threatened by the
principality
who hovers closer
than darkness drear
and whispers doubt
into his ear.
This borrowed cave
encroaching tomb
if struggle fails
inside her womb.
What can he do?
Where can he turn
if death has won
and life is spurned?
The enemy’s hiss
precedes his bite,
and Joseph’s helpless
without the light.
“It’s You I call,
My Creator King,
the One who spoke
and everything
burst with light
and heat and life.
Perhaps this darkness
and this strife
will be my death
and hers too
unless You show me
what to do.”
Crescendo of pain,
excruciating,
as he kneels
beside her, waiting,
an infant head and
face appears
dispelling darkness
and their fears
with newborn light
and heavenly peace
into their hands
posed to receive.
One day, like flint
He’ll set His face
as He journeys
to that place
where death will triumph,
evil win,
in borrowed grave
entombed again,
heel struck by poisoned
serpent’s sting
palms pierced by pain
excruciating.
But Joseph knows
that Life has won
as he swaddles
God’s newborn Son
and cradles the Light
in humble hands
to share with Mary
as he stands
and stoops to give
with pure affection
the Holy Gift
of Resurrection.
Sarah Dixon Young 