they gathered round the firelight
speaking in hushed reverence
of the glorious weaver of galaxies
bearded men and serious scholars
steeped in religious mysteries
masters of divinities
and i? a lowly scribe listening
on the outskirts of conversation
soaking up in silence
the recounted wisdom of centuries
then there he was in their midst
little long-fingered man
seven-days-new to the earth
the womb-rind still clinging
to his reddened skin
was it such a child they saw
those wise wanderers from the east?
such a helpless, fragile thing
beautiful and bawling
at his mother’s breast
divinity mastering humanity
the Infinite in-fleshed and infant
the fullness of God made miniature man
before his frailty they fell face-down
awestruck at his awesome humility
they worshiped, wondering
at the mysteries transcribed
in starlight. gold they gave
incense in smoking censers swinging
and myrrh, making magnificent
the macabre day of death
whose shed blood would betoken
the once far-off brought near
the divine masterfully made clear
to the lowly lost. what more was mine
to give to this spinner of suns?
naught but what he’d given me —
so i return my words to thee.
Nicely written. Just in time for Christmas, too.
thanks for the comment! for the past three years or so i’ve set a project for myself of writing a poem for each week of advent. this is one installment for this year.