“In the bleak mid-winter / Frosty wind made moan,” writes the English poet Christina Rossetti in her 1872 poem.
The poem, which she called “A Christmas Carol,” is one we usually call by its first line, as we do the song(s) written upon which to hang her sweet lyrics. I love the lyrics and the melodies, particularly Gustav Holst’s tune that was paired with the words a few decades after Rossetti penned them. (It’s fun to check out various versions and recordings on the internet.)
The poet praises God for the Incarnation and goes on to paint word pictures that morph in my mind into images even better than those boasted by the most beautiful Christmas cards. Stables, complete with oxen and camels. A manger-crib with a blanket of hay. A sky filled with angels and archangels.
All of Heaven, including “cherubim and seraphim,” join amazed shepherds in adoration. Mary tenderly worships her Baby, her Lord, “with a kiss.” What a sweet gift!
Most of us have at times almost battered our brains trying to think of exactly the right gift for a family member or friend, and the speaker in this poem laments facing that difficulty in the extreme. She knows who this Baby is. She sees the worship and the worshipers. She wants to join them in giving. She longs to give exactly the right gift, but what, in her poor circumstances, does she have to give?
For shepherds, she says, a lamb would be most fitting. We know, of course, that such would be utterly appropriate and filled with meaning. “Behold,” John the Baptizer would later exclaim, “the Lamb of God!”
The speaker is certainly aware of the Wise Men who will come bringing precious gifts. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh. Were she numbered with them, she opines, she would be more than willing to join them by “doing [her] part.”
But she’s not a shepherd. She’s wise, I think, but she is not an “official” Wise Man. So, what, given who she is and what she possesses, is her part, her gift? What from her could ever be a fitting gift for the Baby, God in the flesh?
Does she make a long search? Does she scribe a lengthy list of possible presents for the Christ child? Or does she just suddenly know exactly what the perfect gift, the most truly appropriate gift, the most precious gift must be?
What can she give him? She knows. And she pledges. She will give her heart.
The season of Christmas has passed. Even if you enjoy observing the whole twelve days, well, it’s over. One more year, as the decorations have come down and been relegated to boxes in the attic or under the stairs, I find myself bemoaning what, without sparkling lights and heartwarming songs and more-than-usual good-spirited cheer, is a post-Christmas mid-winter. I admit that “bleak,” to me, is not too strong a word.
The weather is working to do its part, as temperatures are dropping, wind is blowing (I find that part particularly bleak), and record-setting cold is testing our infrastructure and maybe even, to some extent, our spirits.
But again I turn to a precious thought embedded in Rosetti’s sweet poem portraying a “bleak mid-winter” complete with “frosty wind.” In this life, we understand more than we wish about “bleakness” and moaning. Of course, we’ve just celebrated Christ’s first coming. But part of the deep joy for people of faith is looking forward to the time when he comes again “to reign.”
The first coming. The second coming. Yes, thank you, Lord! But, for anyone at any time willing to give the most precious gift, their very heart, the Savior’s “reign” begins right now, right here. And what Christ gives his people makes all the difference in the “bleak mid-winter” and what can be a cold world.
What can I give him? I’m glad I know. Copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.