The Eyes of a Babe

The Boy Child lay quietly, the mother now slept,
the husband, a fatherly vigil he kept.
Into my arms, the small Babe was placed;
I pushed back the cloth to look into His face.

The skin was soft—a bit mottled and red—
a wisp of black hair adorned the small head.
Then slowly, slowly, the eyes opened wide—
though the eyes of a babe, I was lost inside.

In those eyes I saw Love, I saw Truth, I saw Peace,
Majesty and Meekness, worlds that don’t cease.
I also saw sorrow and pain so extreme
that I let out a cry at what I had seen.

But as the eyes stayed open, I saw more—I saw me—
all my joys, all my sorrows, my sins and my deeds.
My soul opened wide, my depths I did see.
I saw myself in those eyes, and those eyes saw me.

The gaze did not burn, nor sharply chastise,
but understanding forgiveness offered the eyes.
They said, “Come lay your burdens and follow thou me.”
My soul leapt and said yes, and I became free.

But a moment in my arms held I the small Boy,
yet a lifetime it seemed—immeasurable Joy!
His eyes now He closed, and gently as able
laid I Him in the manger and retired from the stable.

And now as I stand in the chill of the night,
my sheep are as calm as the Star burning bright.
I remember the angels and the song they did raise.
I remember those eyes, I remember that gaze.

[Christmas Eve, 1997, Provo, Utah]