There is a sound the silent night keeps,
low under the hush, where the deep listening sleeps.
Even the deaf can hear it.
Even the lost draw near it.
It is the glad noise of angels above,
which is only the sound of God’s own heart,
beating its one long syllable of Love
through every vein, through every art,
through the dark and the dawn and the space in between,
through the seen, and the felt, and the not-yet-seen.
It feeds us, quiet as daily bread.
We barely notice we are being led
to warm, to wake, to rise and shine,
each of us a small lit window
in one enormous house of light.
So who is this child, born and laid so low,
this Jesus the carols and candles know?
No stranger. No distant king.
The Light already within us,
the near and forgiving thing,
the spark that says, gently, begin —
born again in everyone
who chooses, today, to let it in.
Rob Chavez