Merry Christmas to you all! And since this is the last blogpost this year, Happy New Year as well. My Christmas was great, it went on all month, gift-wise... but I loved giving to the people I gave to much better, and spending good time with family and friends. As I write this, it is still the 25th, but by the time I post, it won't be. Small point being: this post counts as a holiday post, especially with the poem here. It's about the birth of Jesus... only this time, it's from Joseph's perspective on being a prospective father (something I don't hear in today's Christmas media, so I thought I'd take a whack at it). It's meant to be a monologue to God from him, and also moves to the death and resurrection of Jesus. (For more dramatic effect, put in a full orchestra in the background, and throw in a bit of tone from Fiddler on the Roof. This poem is also meant to be sung, but i don't have the equipment to record that and put it on here.)
"Joseph's Monologue"
by Neil Mullins
Why did he have to be born... here?
Why did he have to be born... now?
Why did it have to be him,
To which all knees might bow?
Just... why?...
Couldn't it have been at home?
Couldn't it have been later?
I shouldn't have promised her,
We shouldn't have come,
I can break this,
I still have the cha-ance!
But... no.
I still love her
I can't do that
To disobey
The Will of God
He will show him
He will lead him
Guide him everywhere
His feet will trod!
Yet... tell me why... why do I feel so alone?
~~~~~~~
How did it come... to this?
How could they kill... my son?
The one who I saw become a man
And was to be... the anointed one?
Just... how?...
You told me to call him Yeshua
Such a common name, at the time
And now this name hangs on a cross,
Tell me, how could this death... be called "sublime"?
~~~~~~~
Wait... what's this I hear?...
Shouts of joy and acclamation!
He embraces me, saying, "No tears...
I truly have come back,
To save this nation!
Now I realize it,
And for this my knees do bow:
Since I know this new Life,
I understand the why... and the how.
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