Poem For Christ The King

See how this homeless babe lifted

himself down into his humble Crèche

and laid his tender glove

of skin against that splintered wood —

found refuge in that rack

of raspy straw — home

on that chilly dawn, in sweetest

silage, those shriven stalks.

See how this outcast King lifted

himself high upon his savage Cross,

extended the regal banner

of his bones, draping himself

upon his throne — his battered feet,

his wounded hands not fastened

there by nails but sewn

by the strictest thorn of Love.

~Pamela Cranston