Three kings, of whom we often read,
brought him gifts he didn't need:
gold—for a prince of paradise
whose grace and favour have no price;
frankincense—to raise a prayer
to God, when God's already there;
and myrrh—to keep the flies away
from one who'd never know decay;
and so it was another king
who brought the useful offering
of homage to the baby Christ—
the blood of children, sacrificed.
Rachel in Ramah still laments
the murder of her innocents
and will not be consoled, nor see
a heavenly conspiracy—
evil is evil yet; and yet
her desolation will beget
compassion, strong and bittersweet:
hate sows seeds of its own defeat.
Herod's slaughter turns again
relentless mills of human pain
that fuel the generator of
the power of transforming love.
Nothing will remedy her loss,
yet the despair of Friday's cross
will bring with Sunday's dawning rays
outpourings of amazing grace.
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