Four hundred years of waiting
Or roughly we are told
From Law to Grace
A painful space
Of darkness, doubt and cold.
Of rogues who spoiled the Temple
Of heroes from the hills
Of Feast of Lights
Eight splendid nights
The Lampstand Heaven fills.
But still they probe
Through darkness
The Promise yet to come
A people chained,
Abused and shamed
So different, doubted, numb.
A priest declares a vision
A son to him is born
A Messenger expected
Before Salvation’s Horn.
Poetic is this outburst
And struggling hopes run high.
“The Morning is a-coming
The Dayspring; He draws nigh!”
Isaiah 40: 1-5