Sonnet on Christmas

You know me in the silence and the pain,
in nights when I abuse your generous grace.
Yet in you may that fallen self be slain,
that I’d in faith adore you all your days.
I know what inward lust I’d feed with this:
your love’s abound in severance of my err.
I feel it, gentle and redeeming rich
the falls of long night’s unrelenting wear.
Picked from the vine you faithfully unfurl,
grace is enough to meet my dearest need.
But fickle I, whose roots scrape rocky soil
to easily forget your mystery,
need freedom rather than that which is free.
So come, your boundless grace and cover me.