The poet, Christopher Fry, articulates a question suggested by the Christmas drama of the Gospels:
The darkest time in the year.
The poorest place in the town.
Cold, and a taste of fear.
Man and woman alone.
What can we hope for here?
More light than we can learn,
More strength than we can treasure,
More love than we can earn,
More peace than we can measure.
Because one child is born*
As through a single flake
Of snow touching the earth
Would all our thirsting slake
And turn all death to birth
Bidding our spirits wake
To what makes many one.
The deep solicitude
Which bred both star and bone.
Claiming, by stable and rood
God’s will to be our own.
(Christopher Fry)
