Poetry by James Stevenson

The moon is high, the night is cold, the mountain blessed with snow. The inn is full; the travellers have nowhere else to go.

But in a stable’s warm embrace a mother finds a quiet place

To lay her newborn child, who’ll face

The troubled world we know.

Under the stable’s starlit roof a donkey lies on straw, Exhausted from the endless trek, a hundred miles or more.

The oxen munch, the geese are still and strangers from beyond the hill Water their camels at the well and tell

About the star.

And shepherds, who have lost their fear, come from the hill above.

The holy babe lies in the manger, gentle as a dove.

And Mary smiles, the shepherds sing, the wise men give the gifts they bring, They kneel to praise the newborn King

Who comes to bring us love.