The little babe was a gift too big to wrap.
That one small life was all life.
A King, born at the back of the Pub
and there was the rub.
No one expected the helpless,
the human, the ordinary.
Those in the know, with robes
stretching back to Moses,
The priests with pedigree,
who whispered in the ear of God,
and owned His nod.
Guardians of the books,
who knew where to look
for that warrior King
promised for greatness.
Destroyer of enemies.
A King bigger than
their own importance.
That King will be born
“In Bethlehem of Judea”
they said.
Yawned, stretched,
went back to bed.
Drugged by certainty
and confidence, God
would have woken them
personally.
While in the hills shepherds thrilled
to angels singing and bringing
news of new life. For free.
And star gazing Pagans
who weren’t supposed to know
or go, traipsing across the desert
for months.
Laid gifts before the Child
and gave thanks for inclusion
that touched untouchables,
and welcomed the unwelcome.
That Baby grew into the promises
and laid eternity
at everyone’s feet.
Geoff Miller ©
10/12/12