By David Willerup

She holds back

as muscle and bone clear a path,

remembering a promise spoken

by a voice only the soul can hear.

Struggling to suppress the urge

to push, push before the turn,

then permits herself to birth life.

Angels rip open the sky

and her womb starts to empty

of water and blood and Word

made flesh, born into straw,

with no home except for everywhere

and no stuff except for everything,

brand new and older than eternity,

the defenseless omnipotent,

all surrendered for us

and for our salvation.