A February Christmas Poem

One different byproduct of my life is poetry. I was going to throw away my gradebook for TCC, but I found this poem that I want to record before I chunk the gradebook. I find things I write a lot at weird times--I should really get a journal and staple it to me. But, alas, I cannot. Here it is, reworked a bit:

Christmas to me

Christmas to me isn't the beginning or the ending,
But it is miraculous!
The creator and king--tiny and helpless,
Held in the hands of the created.
To unbelieving hearts, it is downright perverse that a King would stoop to save.
He became so vulnerable, his infant head pulsed with life.
His mother, not more than a child herself,
Cuddling the one whom the seas obey.
Yet, he could not form a word,
Only gurgle a quiet plea for warmth or milk or comfort.
A woman--a girl really,
deciphering his every need.
A man, full of belief, but unsure of his role
as much as any new father is.
For that unmarked day in history brought:
A cure for the incurable,
Hope for the growing dispair,
A savior, whose sacrifice began as he emerged in a quiet stable in Bethlehem,
And as God filled his sweet new lungs with breath.