It’s midnight. An Advent poem.

It’s midnight, but we must not drift to sleep.

A rumor flies – the thief is coming soon.

The master of the house is fast asleep – 

Content, complacent in his bed, behind

The bolted door. But we are wide awake,

And bolts (we know) cannot keep out the thief.

The son of Circe tempts us with his food, 

But, lest we eat of such things as please him,

And so communicate with wickedness,

Clamavi, Domine! Custodiam!

Clamavi non pone ori meo!

The food he offers us is poisonous. 

We must not taste his wine, ‘though it is sweet;

We must not taste his wine, for then we’d sleep;

We must not sleep, for we must watch and pray.

The thief, we’ve heard, is coming in the night

To break into the strong man’s house, to bind

Him up, to plunder him, and set us free.