Skin so soft.
What of the fragility of a God
who would become a baby?
What of a small foot, held by
a teenager,
kissed by three kings,
licked by a goat
in a stable,
nailed to a tree
later. Much later.
What of God passing by the options?
Shall the scholars see the star?
They are busy reading.
Shall the priests see the star?
They are busy with their silver and silks.
Shall a King see the star?
He is busy plotting.
Shall an empire see the star?
It is busy plotting too.
Shall a church see the star?
It is busy. So busy.
What of God choosing shepherds?
They sit in silence on the hillside.
They nap in the space between hedges
to protect the lambs from wolves.
They live their lives under the stars
watching, waiting, wondering.
Perfect. The shepherds are perfect.
So shepherds meander down from the hills,
Bethlehem gridlocked with herds.
Town councils up in arms about sheep poo.
Kings make their way across the sands.
Clergy wait, stage left, for the trial and execution.
What of a foot touched by a mother?
What of a foot kissed by a king in
silks of burgundy, cobalt blue and yellow?
What of a foot seen in wonder by shepherds
whose searching for a star ends them here?
Of all places. A stable.
What of a God whose glory is
matched only by humility
in becoming meat.
Soft.
Moist.
Gentle.
Flexing.
Wrapped.
Sandled.
Nailed.
And then made new when God
makes all things new.
