A Poem for Advent
Tomorrow is the last Sunday of Advent. As I’m writing this, I have an Advent candle burning on my bedside table. My toddler is safely tucked away in bed, and my newborn is sleeping in her Moses basket. There is a sense of warmth and safety. But there is tiredness, too. That same toddler skipped his nap today, and that same newborn refused to sleep at all until 6am this morning. Unintentionally, my husband and I quite literally had an all-night vigil, courtesy of baby’s colic. There are many things that have looked different this Advent season. We didn’t decorate the house; no tree, no wreath, no fairy lights. I didn’t do any Christmas baking (oh, for my beloved mince pies!), I didn’t buy an Advent calendar, and I’m not cooking on Christmas day. I haven’t been to any carol services, nor am I likely to be able to.
But despite this, in some ways I have felt closer to God than in previous years. As Christina Rossetti writes in her wonderful poem, simply titled ‘Advent’, my ‘Advent nights are long’ this year, long and sleepless. I lie awake with my fussy baby, waiting to get some sleep, but waiting for Christ to be born, as well. Sadness, exhaustion, and a sense of expectation all mix together. It is difficult to remain hopeful when so sleep deprived, just as it is difficult to remain hopeful of mankind’s salvation in our fallen world. In the words of Rossetti:
We weep because the night is long,
We laugh, for day shall rise,
We sing a slow contented song
And knock at Paradise.
So this last Sunday of Advent, whether you’re a very tired parent like me, or simply a lover of good poetry, I urge you to read this beautiful poem, and contemplate on the trials and joys of waiting for Christ to be born into the world. While Rossetti’s ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ is much more well-known, ‘Advent’ captures the meaning of this special time of the year like no other poem. Here it is, in its entirety. Happy reading!
This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
These Advent nights are long;
Our lamps have burned year after year,
And still their flame is strong.
“Watchman, what of the night?” we cry,
Heart-sick with hope deferred:
“No speaking signs are in the sky,”
Is still the watchman’s word.The Porter watches at the gate,
The servants watch within;
The watch is long betimes and late,
The prize is slow to win.
“Watchman, what of the night?” but still
His answer sounds the same:
“No daybreak tops the utmost hill,
Nor pale our lamps of flame.”One to another hear them speak,
The patient virgins wise:
“Surely He is not far to seek,”—
“All night we watch and rise.”
“The days are evil looking back,
The coming days are dim;
Yet count we not His promise slack,
But watch and wait for Him.”One with another, soul with soul,
They kindle fire from fire:
“Friends watch us who have touched the goal.”
“They urge us, come up higher.”
“With them shall rest our waysore feet,
With them is built our home,
With Christ.” “They sweet, but He most sweet,
Sweeter than honeycomb.”There no more parting, no more pain,
The distant ones brought near,
The lost so long are found again,
Long lost but longer dear:
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,
Nor heart conceived that rest,
With them our good things long deferred,
With Jesus Christ our Best.We weep because the night is long,
We laugh, for day shall rise,
We sing a slow contented song
And knock at Paradise.
Weeping we hold Him fast Who wept
For us,—we hold Him fast;
And will not let Him go except
He bless us first or last.Weeping we hold Him fast to-night;
We will not let Him go
Till daybreak smite our wearied sight,
And summer smite the snow:
Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove
Shall coo the livelong day;
Then He shall say, “Arise, My love,
My fair one, come away.”