It’s not when he came
Not his time of birth that matters
But that he came
Formed his throne in fame forever
Little babe, little sage,
Little cradle made of stone

Holiday fervor with
Capital’s seduction
Mass produces our nativity
Into
dysfunction as a scene
Rather
Than our story,
proves Epiphany:

three, no
twenty wise men
star gazers, Zoroastrian
poets from the Orient to invade one
Occidental town
Whose newly-crowned king
strikes fear in a once-bold
Herod, a grippa fear holds him, waging
War with firstborns
babes helpless to onslaught
wrath which,
However gripped by fear,
Won’t last the night…

Our star beckons
Twelve shepherds,
God’s angels reckon words by Him
For His manger clothes aren’t
Mangy, but a robe whose train
chugs glory.

Our story’s a twelve-year
old lost in a temple, unalone
accompanied by riddled rabbis.
He teaches his teachers.
Parents left, said he when found
“I’m here for Father.”

People loved him
A man, hilarious, life of
parties — healing, feeling
pangs of poor,
loosing chains.
People hated him
This man, vicarious over word-
traps. Calling himself The
Rest, Land, Word,
Law, Bread, Life,
Drink, Love, Gate, Light,
Shepherd, Vine, Way,
Jubilee.

Heretic.

Crazy, bane, sore in our side,
they’ll make him king
if he stays.

Chains came on a night
surrounded by saints & scoundrels friends and
fouls watching his silent march
up the incline of a skull…

Scourged, taunted,
forgotten when guards
put his own clothes on him
yet they weren’t rags
but the robe whose train
chugs glory.

He locked his jaw, obeyed death,
to rule it
in time.

See him stand
At week’s turn with holy hands, side,
grave-clothes known only as a robe
Whose train chugs glory,
whose train now
rolling out its tomb.

It’s not when he came
Not his time of birth that matters
But that he came
Formed his throne in fame forever
Little babe, little sage,
Little cradle made of stone