Violent winds and smokey skies,
Become a fated audience above,
The unmoved hills which fix themselves,
A sliver of the starlight for a coat.

At moment ceaseless drops take pause,
In time for all the whispers of the trees,
The sky too stills like unpolished marble,
I find in it a simple peace.

Little ones I give to you,
More energy than I thought I'd do,
I hope that all your time was fun,
With books and dinosaurs and pens,
With thoughts on faithfulness and friends.

What good news is this?
That contorts wise eyes,
And lights the strong ablaze in rage,
Calling all to fall humble at the feet of a carpenter,
On a wooden construct not His own,

Yet it is on our construct He was pinned,
One we cast with gold and silver,
One we lusted after with wayward gaze,
One we formed from our ground bones and ashes,

Self destroyers.
Vile murderes.

Yet He hangs for us,
What good news is this?
He would do so for me?
He would do so for you?

To beauty He hangs ugly,
To strength He hangs weak,
To wisdom He dies a foolish king,
No... in Him such things are perfected.