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Poetry
by
M. B. Baldwin
A GIFT
Father obtained the perfect gift.
He sent it to Mary
That first Christmas morning.
She kept it guarded safely over the years.
She polished it and cherished it,
knowing it was to be handed over
when the time came.
The gift was fully paid for
with the blood of One unblemished Lamb--
blood that a thousand other lambs
could never provide.
And When it was paid,
the cry went up,
"It is finished."
A man named Joseph
wrapped the gift
in grave clothes
and it was sealed
in a tomb of stone.
As children do at Christmas,
the angels opened the gift
early one morning.
And though it was not Christmas
the day was just as special
and the gift more precious than any.
There is nothing left for us to do.
Indeed, "It is finished".
The gift was given,
nurtured for us,
wrapped for us,
and even opened for us.
There is nothing we can do now
...but accept it.
Can you?
Will you?
Return to Poetry Index
Shop HERE for your own domain name and related products.
Poetry
by
M. B. Baldwin
A GIFT
Father obtained the perfect gift.
He sent it to Mary
That first Christmas morning.
She kept it guarded safely over the years.
She polished it and cherished it,
knowing it was to be handed over
when the time came.
The gift was fully paid for
with the blood of One unblemished Lamb--
blood that a thousand other lambs
could never provide.
And When it was paid,
the cry went up,
"It is finished."
A man named Joseph
wrapped the gift
in grave clothes
and it was sealed
in a tomb of stone.
As children do at Christmas,
the angels opened the gift
early one morning.
And though it was not Christmas
the day was just as special
and the gift more precious than any.
There is nothing left for us to do.
Indeed, "It is finished".
The gift was given,
nurtured for us,
wrapped for us,
and even opened for us.
There is nothing we can do now
...but accept it.
Can you?
Will you?
Return to Poetry Index