On Christmas day I weep
Good Friday to rejoice.
I watch the Child asleep.
Does he half-dream the choice
The Man must make and keep?
At Christmastime I sigh
For my good Friday hope
Outflung the Child’s arms lie
To span in their brief scope
The death the Man must die.
Come Christmastide I groan
To hear Good Friday’s pealing.
The Man, racked to the bone,
Has made His hurt my healing,
Has made my ache His own.
Slay me, pierced to the core
With Christmas penitence
So I who, new-born, soar
To that Child’s innocence,
May wound the Man no more.
–Vassar Miller (1924-1998)
I am happy to see Vassar Miller on your pages.
She worshipped, in the last decade of her life, at
an E. Church, an American Baptist congregation (often on the same day) and sometimes at a Quaker meeting.
Incidentally, she died in 1998, not 1988.