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.
But Jesus was saying, "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing."— Luke 23:34a
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.
Savior Buried Beneath the Madness
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.
© 2015 Geri McClymont