The light shone bright, Bethlehem-ward, but
There was little else to guide them: no signs on the door,
No royal procession, no red carpet.
Watch out, the guides might have said, for the smell of cow dung:
Not a fragrance, perhaps, befitting a king,
But such was – and is – our King.
A newborn, no doubt he slept when they came to the door.
What did they say, I wonder? Is there a king in the house?
The teenage, virgin bride flushed, post-labour, almost certainly tired.
The mother will not yet be ready to receive visitors, our modern-day
Matrons would no doubt pronounce.
Yet, strangers – aliens – that they were, they
Found their way into the stable, and gave the humble
Child-king the reception he deserved.
Not that this would set the tone for the rest of his life.
Yet in this moment he was – almost – acknowledged in a manner
Befitting his natural state. But was that really the point?
Surely he could have commanded a royal party every night, if he chose.
Instead, his final night he spent in a garden, just
A few close friends (they fell asleep later on that night),
A kiss in the moonlight, a shaky prayer; Father, take this cup…
Does the story end there? We wait, on the edge of our seats.
Yet we’d prefer it, I suspect, if that was the end.
He’s easier to take, as a baby, or – dare we admit it – when dead.
Alive, a broken king, his life defies all onto which we cling;
And rightly so, yet awkward for sure. There’s no option,
Before such a king, but to bow: all else is treason.
He knows, of course, that most of us won’t.
His brow was crushed by ones like us – the ones, I suppose,
Who would not find their way to the stable no matter
How many stars there were to guide the way.
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