He'd watched each galaxy as it appeared, and burst out singing as stars came to life. He'd hurled the fallen angels from the sky, and seen a perfect world become sin-smeared. He'd strode the halls of heaven year on year, and stood before the throne of the Most High. No demon yet had ever made him fly, or any king on earth filled him with fear. But as a teenage girl from a small town gazed at him like a young deer poised to flee, the thought of what he'd come to say filled him with awe so great that for an instant he was speechless. In the silence of that room, the angel Gabriel dropped down on his knee.
You’d be forgiven, after last week and the week before, for expecting today’s poem to be titled “[insert poetic form here] for the third Sunday of Advent”, but it’s been a full week and I’m tired, and frankly a nap this afternoon was much more appealing than concocting a new poem. So instead I offer you this sonnet that I wrote a few years ago, and wish you peace, hope, and—like Gabriel—a taste of wonder on the third Sunday of Advent.
What beautiful words.