I recall that the One to whom we cry is no longer an infant, and this feels both wonderful and terrifying. 

We begin to see him as he now is in dreams and poetry, for only metaphor can give us a glimpse of the truth: “His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire … his voice was like the sound of rushing waters” (Revelation 1:14,15).

Here, on this second Monday of Advent, is a poem from Madeleine L’Engle. She who dared to imagine and yet still dared to pray.


          Come, Lord Jesus


     Come, Lord Jesus! Do I dare

     Cry: Lord Jesus, quickly come!

     Flash the lightning in the air,

     Crash the thunder on my home!

     Should I speak this aweful prayer?

     Come, Lord Jesus, help me dare.


     Come, Lord Jesus! You I call

     To come (come soon!) are not the child

     Who lay once in the manger stall,

     Are not the infant meek and mild.

     You come in judgement on our all:

     Help me to know you, whom I call.


     Come, Lord Jesus! Come this night

     With your purging and your power,

     For the earth is dark with blight

     And in sin we run and cower

     Before the splendid, raging sight

     Of the breaking of the night.


     Come, my Lord! Our darkness end!

     Break the bonds of time and space.

     All the powers of evil rend

     By the radiance of your face.

     The laughing stars with joy attend:

     Come Lord Jesus! Be my end!

                    – Madeleine L’Engle


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