Jane Blanchard

Sleep, baby, sleep, at long last bornIn Bethlehem as once foretold,To parents recently forlorn,To all who yet may be consoled. Sleep, baby, sleep, and do not cryWhen shepherds from the fields appear,Just after angels in the skyHave sung that Christ the Lord is near. Sleep, baby, sleep, you need not . . . . Continue Reading »

A statue of the risen Lord, No more than four feet tall, Composed of resin painted gold, Hung on the church’s wall. Arms raised, it welcomed everyone Approaching from the east: Saints, sinners, strangers, members, guests, The greatest to the least. One night the statue disappeared From its . . . . Continue Reading »