Savior Buried Beneath the Madness—A Christmas Poem

Christmas is, and always has been, my favorite time of the year. The joyous Christmas tunes and festive holiday spirit always make me smile. Here in Colorado, we often have a snowfall in December, and the sight of the evergreen trees dusted with snow is truly a sight to behold.

I enjoy driving through the historic part of my town, where large wreaths decorate lampposts and white lights transform the streets into a magical wonderland. People scurry about from here to there in search for presents, bundled up in their winter coats, hats, and mittens.

And in the midst of all the holiday glitter and frenzy, I easily forget what Christmas really celebrates: the birth of Jesus, the baby born to die for us so that we might be saved through Him.

I also forget the unglamorous way God sent us Jesus – as a helpless infant born to an unwed teenager, who gave birth in a stable on a cold winter night, because there was no room for her in the inn.

Jesus, You came to a world that didn’t deserve You.

We spat on You, ridiculed You, and in the end, we nailed You to a cross.

And even as we did this to You, You forgave us. And You turned to the criminals crucified beside you and spoke to them of Your kingdom.

We still don’t deserve You.

Yet there You are, always waiting for us to come to You, ready to receive us.

This is a poem I wrote about how easy it is to get so caught up in the holiday frenzy that we miss the real meaning of Christmas.

It was early dawn

On Christmas morn

And underneath the tree

No gifts remained --

They’d all been claimed

By loved ones and by me.

We’d all been up

Since half past dusk

To seize our rightful treasures:

Boxes full of all the things

That give us so much pleasure.

And stockings, too, filled with stuff and fluff,

And more stuff, for good measure.

Torn wrappings, ribbons, packaging

Lay scattered ‘round the room.

And children played,

While adults swayed

And danced to Christmas tunes.

And in the midst of all the racket

On that early morn,

We all forgot that in the night

A baby had been born.

So no one saw

The baby boy

Buried ‘neath the clutter.

His hand reached out, invisible

To us, who thought we loved Him.

His muffled cries

Were unheard too

As He pleaded for our notice.

But we could not hear, nor see, nor feel

For our senses were distorted

By all the glitter, frenzy, noise

That filled our Christmas day.

And we just kept on unnoticing Him

Until at last He passed away.

The Savior still reaches His hand

To me, through all the madness.

This baby, born to die for me,

And to reverse my blindness.

He beckons still, His voice so mild,

If only I will hear it.

And offers yet

His gift to me

And asks if I’ll receive it.