Look Up

                                     Look Up

Look up and see.
Star over the stable shines still.
Sheep still bleat on Bethlehem hill.

Look up and see.
Angel carved in the cathedral nave,
above the tides of wave by wave.

Look up and see.
He holds in his hand a sandstone scroll,
etched with words from the holy foal.

Could be a scripture quote,
a prophet long ago once wrote,
an announcement that speaks
of the spirit inspired,
the soul as a clear lamp lit,
a flame with no heat or smoke.
Study the sentence revealed:
The fire kindled
and I spoke.
Wonder what words were spoken,
and when they were what woke,
truth to survive the thunder,
withstand the winds like a mountain oak.

Look up and see.
Angel above the organ pipes,
his horn lifted, blown to heaven,
not sky to open, but spiritual space,
where the body is forgotten,
its weariness, illness, decline, death.
While you walked the city street,
like others you only looked before you,
and what lay at your feet,
drawn to the light of shop windows,
but here in the cathedral nave,
be brave, look up and see.

Listen. The choir sings
In The Bleak Midwinter.
Remember when you came to know
Christina Rossetti wrote the words,
inspired by the London snow,
someone set to a tune.
So what she wrote will survive as a carol,
to be sung whatever winds may blow.

No matter what words are said,
the thread will not be broken,
the cord will not be cut,
will never sever.
Down in the tomb garden,
stone angel, head bent under wings,
weeps for them forever.

Look up and see.
Attend once more before you go
to words held clear above the flow.
Remember when your spirit first woke
to the angel announcement:
The fire kindled
and I spoke.

 

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