We are no longer at ease here, we
who’ve been disturbed by the
sprung rhythm of Coinherence –
this Child in us, and we in Him.
Like so many wise men, we
mount the saints’ stair with fickle
pace and laggardly gifts in tow,
trekking our way up from the
House of Bread.
But not back East.
Instead, we hie our hobbled
way up to Herod’s brutal halls,
and beyond, into his dim
dominion of callous riches and
kangaroo courts, announcing as
we go the coup of the God-Man,
whose tiny hands now wrest
the Kingdom from his quiet
manger-bed.
