Tony Maude is a husband, sometime stand-in Dad, pastor, preacher, trainee proof-reader, blogger and novice poet. In a former life he was a research scientist. Last Christmas he was one of “Santa’s little helpers”, delivering parcels through knee-deep snow in sub-zero temperatures.

I admit it. I’m a guest-post virgin. The cursor flashes before my eyes, hungry for words to fill the blank space. What should I write about? What voice should I use? Is it OK to just be me, to write my way, when this is destined to appear in someone else’s space? What gift can I give? And there is my prompt – “The Gift” – given to me at a Writers’ Group meeting the other day.

The Gift

The Gift is given to us with

 No paper smooth, no ribbon tied,

His glory to contain,

But only flesh and bone like ours,

Birthed through his mother’s pain.

The Gift is given to us with

No palace home, no royal throne

His splendour there unfurled.

But secretly, in poverty

He bursts into this world.

The Gift is given to us with

No honoured place ‘neath baubled tree,

To rest his new-born head.

A much-used, straw-filled cattle trough

Becomes his lowly bed

The Gift is given to us with

No herald swift, no fanfare loud

To announce his holy birth.

Humble shepherds on windswept hill,

Alone were told his worth.

The Gift is given to us still,

Glad tidings of great joy for all,

If we would just believe.

Immanuel, the Holy child

Still waits to be received.

Tony Maude - 09/12/2011