No earthly accounting exists for this love— The math won’t add up, somehow it will miss love. “We who must die demand a miracle” The poet says, so surely this one gets love? But it is too much for the mind to carry, So we hide it in words, language that splits love To clean it up, make it a myth—or worse, A cold calculation of who merits love. The story speaks. A young woman with bright faith In a land shadowed by enemies hears love. She responds, and wonder is conceived in her. Maybe this—embodied, cradled, blessed—is love. What I know is that we can’t go back again Since God pierced this frail, hapless world with His love.
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