How could it be that the God of the cosmos, mys-
terious, infinite, formless, sublime,
hinders himself in a grand condescension to
finite from boundless, imprisoned in time?

Power reduced to the infantile grasp and om-
niscience confined by the stereo gaze.
Alpha, Omega, the scriptures proclaim, yet fra-
gility, weakness his body betrays.

Mary, oh Mary, now ponder you must for your
Babe called Immanuel dirties his cloth.
Soon he declares that his kingdom is one that can-
not be disfigured by rust or by moth.

Tarry no longer, we pierce him to die for his
oneness with Yahweh he claims to possess.
Death does not settle, his tomb does not hold. He re-
turns resurrected, the hundreds profess.

Bid ye that God in his love for the world would de-
liver himself to the death we are due?
Christmas, a myst’ry that buckles the knees. It is
yonder from neutral—it’s tomfool or true.

© Tanner Rinke 2013