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



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 ©


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