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January 30, 2023

The Host

By Stephen Kingsnorth

The Host

Angels from the realms of glory,
are you passing in the street?
God, creator and sustainer,
you’re met in the cattle shed.
In the scent of ordure birthing,
refugees in pregnant pause,
I would meet not wings or haloes,
but true messengers of God.
Will I know them if step by them --
would I know the stable God?
Do I hear the voice as speaking,
when I see the dispossessed?
Recognised by irreligious,
filthy shepherds in the fields,
met by train, tracking conjunction,
foreign, alien in this land.
Those who knew promise their birthright,
for their lore had certified,
blindness seen in those most certain,
those whose wondering at an end.
Am I ready for the holy,
recognised, unlikely shift,
or is faith, unstable, moving,
powerless baby, needing love?
Hosts, it seems, are all around us,
but we wait for glory’s shine;
realise the kingdom waiting
for those sitting in the dark.







Article © Stephen Kingsnorth. All rights reserved.
Published on 2022-12-19
Image(s) are public domain.
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