(acrostic poem)
Christ, come softly: the uneven way
Has been prepared. Though angels
Rampant crowd the skies, each one
In his own way praising Thee– Softly,
Softly come. Through tribulation and joy,
This night whispers hope.
(In exultation, my heart's own voice
Sings! And even the voiceless and deaf rejoice!)
But silvered silence sighs. The skies are emptied now, and
Only for now, the Logos-Child speaks not.
Remembering vows, and veils, and the cup to come, He
Now sleeps. Softly, softly: Christ.
© Latayne C. Scott
