Incarnation
Little babe,
this night your head rests on borrowed hay,
no place of your own,
no welcome from the learned
and pious,
the rich or powerful,
no room in the inn,
no room in the heart,
ignored.
Tonight, the angels sing of Heaven's joy,
not to the kings and nobles,
men of power and means and might,
but to the shepherds,
outcasts in the fields,
unloved,
poor,
untrusted,
ignored.
O Beloved child,
darling of your mother,
miracle of God,
how soon the night will come
when your head, cold and abused,
lies in a borrowed tomb,
no place of your own,
rejected by the learned
and the pious,
brought to death's door by the powerful,
those with no room in their hearts
for your truth,
for your light,
they think you extinguished.
That morning to come,
Heaven will sing
as death's doors are shattered,
and you will smile first
not on the kings and the leaders,
the rich and powerful,
but the outcasts,
the woman who wailed
in her loss,
the disciple who turned his back in fear,
unloved by the world,
untrusted,
ignored.
O the foolishness of God,
So much wiser than the world,
caught in the cry of a child,
the empty tomb,
the unloved now beloved,
the ignored remembered,
the untrusted transformed forever.
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
BTTT