The earth holds its breath in the twilight,
a hushed stillness cloaked in ancient longing.
The skies stretch wide, their stars trembling,
as if they too wait for the dawn of glory.

Time folds inward, bearing the weight of hope,
fragile yet fierce, pressed into every shadow.
The prophets’ whispers echo in the silence,
each word a flame flickering against despair.

We wait, not idly, but with hearts wide open,
tending the ache of unfulfilled promise.
For in the tension of already and not yet,
faith takes root and blossoms unseen.

Each moment brims with sacred expectancy—
a cry, a gasp, a whispered name—
Emmanuel. God with us.
God for us. God among us.

And so, we light the candles, one by one,
their glow pushing against the edges of night.
Not to banish the darkness, but to soften it,
to cradle it in the tender arms of hope.

In this waiting, we are remade,
our souls shaped by the quiet labor of trust.
For the coming Light is near—
closer than breath, nearer than our own yearning.

And when He comes, it will not be with thunder,
but as a child, a gift wrapped in humility,
a promise fulfilled in the smallest of cries.
We wait, and in our waiting, we are found.