Unto us a child …
Reaches – from filthy straw,
Frustrated by our
This is our God,
Infinite infant, wordless Word,
Lacking speech we can
Grasp, understand,
Or twist, or mock, or make
Our own.

Is this truly our
Epiphany, our
Maker bawling helplessly,
Powerless Lord to
Power-seized people,
His chosen emptiness
Mocking our age’s strong
Ones shutting out the
Weak? His need, deep, calls to
Our own.

For while this child is
For us, he is not (yet)
One of us; not colleague, but
Dependent: our race’s
Future, reliant
On our mercy, drawing out
Compassion, like the sword,
From stony hearts,
That he may then call them
His own.


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