The world is burning, twinkling lights betray
a damaged conscience, we have lost our way.
Our neighbours drown, we build on solid ground,
as Jesus weeps while songs of praise resound.
Within this season darkness clouds each mind,
consumption numbs the pain we ought to find
when hearing news of hunger and of drought,
a stable’s birth should soon erase all doubt:
the Christ we claim to know, born in the dirt,
while at our doors our neighbours starve and hurt.
So put aside this carolling and praise
until compassion drives our words and ways.
Andrew Pratt 19/11/2021
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