Several of my Advent poems have been published by Agape Review, a newer Christian literary journal. Below is a link to one that has really stuck with me, as well as its text:
"The Carpenter" This small pink being in my aching arms is not my own But I am now and ever wholly his. The curl of these pudgy knuckles round my roughened thumb Hold me in a stronger, steadfast grip. Each tiny coo and cough strikes to my heart As the gurgles of these little lips Voice the groaning of all the weary earth For this tiny boy of wondrous birth. But, oh! How can it rightly be? Surely, surely it should not be me. My palms are callused, thick and hardened, Scarred from splinters and nicked by nails. How can these work-worn, bloodied things Hold this soft, sweet newborn King? No crude board should ever touch this flesh, No nail pierce his as mine— But he wriggles, He whimpers With a sleeping baby’s sigh. He cares not for my wounded hands And nor, right now, should I.