By Mary Serafino

The stable door is open; you stoop to enter in.
You find the family all alone beneath the crowded inn.

The kings are gone,
their gifts secured,
within the folds of hay.
The drummer boy,
asleep at home,
keeps smiling where he lay.

The only sound is quiet; cold stillness is the tune,
Mary leans back softly in the cave lit by the moon.

The baby sleeps,
the mother rests,
the father nods shalom.
You take your place
beside the crib,
and suddenly – you’re home. 

“This baby! He is gentle,” the mother says with joy.
He must be held with tenderness – my little baby boy.”

She looks at you, 
her voice is soft, 
“This Baby, He brings light.
He must be held,
with arms of faith,
to keep his head upright.”

His mother’s voice the signal, the baby stirs with cold,
She scoops him up within her arms, her joy yet still untold.

“This is the time,”
the mother says,
her hand on yours clasped tight.
“He must be held,
with arms of love,
and those are yours tonight.”

She stoops; you scoop; The Baby comes. 
His Heart beats love renewed.
Of all the people in the land,
Mary chooses you.

© 2025