He Emptied Himself

The first draft of a poem I've been thinking about for a while, but finally got down to writing today, with this morning's set Gospel reading in mind:

He emptied himself

becoming like you, like me

just one more human statistic

in the arithmetic of creation.

And at the moment of his birth

a star may have shone

brighter than the rest

and one or two may even have seen it,

but no matter, not really;  he had emptied himself,

and he would not be found in the palaces and cathedrals

but down there with the common folk,

taking his place among all the cursing and rags.

A week after Twelfth Night

I watch the falling snow twist and settle between

the stems of winter jasmine.  This morning in church

we heard again how the rough-coated madman John found,

among the crowds who cascaded out to him along the Jordan,

the one man he had no need to baptize,

but who sought and required baptism none the less

declaring himself one with the crowd,

taking freely upon his own back

those sinful rags the rest of us never could set aside.

And as he came up from the water, a voice may well have said

“This is my son, my beloved”

even if only one man there could hear it.

And a dove may well have drifted down,

leaving a feather or two afloat on the water.

And in time the man will be lifted up where all may look on if they choose;

and today, already, he is on that road.

And in heaven, and on earth, and under the earth

every knee shall bow.