The Coming

Lord, you came,

Not as the lightening fills the skies

Nor with a warrior’s shout

But babies’ cries.


You claimed –

Not rights, not pomp, not majesty –

But just a pauper’s hovel

In humility.


For there,

Among the refuse, hopelessly,

Lay other vagrants – all humanity.

You chose our lot,

And through those long and wintry hours,

Lay down your head amid the hay

With ours.

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