Midwinter travel brings its share of woes:
the days curtailed, the nights are long and cold;
The stars our guide, the rough-haired camel’s nose
points westward into sunset’s shining gold.
Some Nabataean traders share our way,
their costly incense worth its weight in gold.
A camp-fire a deal is quickly done. We pay,
and frankincense and myrrh are bought and sold.
These gifts we carry, brought from lands afar
to give a king whose birth has been foretold;
his coming shown us by a wand’ring star,
a heav’nly sign, a portent from of old.
Some thought us mad to trust in this old lore,
this Persian wisdom story-tellers told.
A saviour born like no king born before,
our hope to see him makes our spirits bold.
As Abraham from Ur to Canaan rode
and knew not where God led him and his fold,
so we must brave the dusty, desert road
and journey on to let God’s will unfold.
And when we get there, who knows what we’ll find.
This strange, elusive God we’ve known of old
surprises us, and makes us change our mind,
so love we value now far more than gold.
Praise God whose promises will be fulfilled
which prophets wrote on parchment scrolls unrolled.
Praise God whose living Spirit can’t be stilled,
and guides us to the Lamb of God’s true fold.
© Andrew Sinclair 2018