Moved by that special time of year that it is, as well as a mind still steeped in Oriel theology more than year after my tragic departure, I’ve written a little nativity-related poem that I thought you might want to see:
The High Priest
Who can take up the noble tyrant’s vow,
The anointed fire and the vengeful rod,
When God-forged crown slips from an infant’s brow,
For how could Jesse root sprout from foul sod?
Am I told to bow to a suckling child?
Where is the foretold king in glory shod,
Who’d conquer Babel with a fury wild,
And shake the nations with each step he trod?
When thunder cracked and heaven’s trumpets called,
To herald God’s truth, and our hope, unveiled,
Hollow noise and dust kept our minds enthralled:
The great Isaiah’s incantations failed.
The relics of devotion are blown and lost,
As I stumble out over blackened frost.
I suppose the theological point I’m making with this is basically just ‘the kind of Messiah that Jesus turned out to be was probably quite surprising’.