Holy Child of mystery, I prepare a place for you. I remodel the inn of my heart. I clear a room and let go of many things. I fashion a crib of finest wood. I make a space that is just for you, and open it up each day, and in stillness I wait— until I find that in darkness of night beneath my knowing or waking, in cold and poverty, without place at all, you have already come and lie waiting in some unexpected manger.
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