MEMOIR: THE YEARS OF THE SARUS

 

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IN BETHLEHEM

It is my younger son who keeps the stable now -

I am too old, my knees - what of the elder?

Aiee, you press on a wound there.

Ben Nechama I named the younger.  The Lord

gave him to me for consolation.

Aiee, that was a dreadful day.

Merciless, they slew him, not two he was -

torn from his mother's arms.  By whom?

Herod's men - nay, I speak it low -

It was the strangers - from eastern lands they say -

wise men.  Not wise enough

to keep from Herod what they sought.

Followed a moving star, they said,

to find the new-born king. 

Herod had no cub then.  He called the scholars

“What's all this?” he asked, menacing.

They knew, Herod knew, the true king

must come of David's line.

"In Bethlehem", they said, "Micah foretold it".

"Go find this infant king", Herod told the wise men

"then come and tell me".

They never came back.  Our sons paid the price...

all boys of two or less.

For naught, some say.  A boy was got away

the night the wise men left.

 

That was a strange thing....

His father was of David's line,

a carpenter.  Come down from Galilee -

the census drew them all - and his wife.

Pale, in much pain.

She was with child, her time upon her.

Not a bed in the town.

"Let them shelter in the stable",

the innkeeper said, pitying them.  I too.

We made a bed of hay, the man and I;

the innkeeper sent his wife,

another came with water - women's things.

It seemed the sky had more stars, so bright it was.

I remember there came at first a child's cry within

and then the music... Not of this earth, I deem -

it seemed to fall from the stars...

 

The man came out, stood silent.

"The Lord has blessed you", I said, "is it a boy?"

He nodded, then led me in.

With shining eyes, his wife looked on her child:

a morsel laid by her side.

Feeling eyes upon me I turned.

Every beast was gazing at him,

even the roosting hens,

on the swaddled babe whose small mouth pursed

and blew, moving as in speech.  I thought

"He will be a preacher", and laughed within.

 

In the hour past midnight came the sound of feet,

and muted bleating.  Shepherds!

Some are good, some not; these watched over

the Temple’s flocks.  They came, said the oldest,

to see – was there a newborn babe within?

“This is a stable,” said I.  “True, but he said –”

“Who said?”  He looked me in the eye

“It was an angel” – “an army of angels”

piped up a lad.  “Yes, a host, singing -

such songs you never heard.  ‘I bring tidings of joy’,

the leader said, ‘in Bethlehem this night

is born the Saviour, Mashiach, the Son of God.

Go seek a newborn laid in a manger.’

And the sky was filled with angels singing.”

He looked up as though he heard them still.

“Is he within?”  Silenced, I stepped aside, let them in:

shuffling feet, softly bleating lambs.

 

The census over, all who had come went home,

all but the carpenter from Galilee.

He opened a shop; they remained, wife, son, and he.

Until the wise men came.  Then they were gone.

Suddenly.  Before the slaughter of all our lambs.

The town was desolate, the hamlets around.

All our sons gone, yet the one was never found.

Aiee, stranger, you have stirred sorrow buried deep –

and the one who was promised; angels singing,

stars, and wise men journeying –

where is the Son of David?  Romans rule us still.

 

“I come to bring you news of him, news of joy:

he preaches a new life, and the Almighty is with him,

for he has cured every sickness, cast out demons

healed lepers, made the blind see, the deaf hear,

the lame walk.  He forgives sins.  The dead have risen

at his command.  His teaching has set us free.

Such is the power goes forth from him

a Roman declared his faith –” A Roman?

“A centurion whose body slave lay sick;

‘I am not worthy,’ he said ‘that you should come

under my roof; speak but the word

and my servant shall be healed.’

The word was spoken, the servant was healed.

Our Master wondered that in all Israel such faith

he had not found.  So lift up your head, your heart

old man.  Come to the babe grown to man’s state.

Hear my tidings of joy, though I do not sing,

come to Mashiach, Son of David, our King.”

© 2023 by Ruth Heredia  between two Sundays of Advent, 2023

 Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.