When royalty descends from palace to village,
Chances are, it’s for a coronation.
There’s an emerging incongruity about this one,
A rescue mission—rumor has it—but that would be reckless,
“A king sends horsemen for that sort of thing.”
At worst it would be fatal, at best it saves a loved one but still
Unwise.

When royalty rides out of the palace, adornments are world-class.
This one, they say, comes in pauper’s garments but
That would shame the wealthy, the movers, the influencers,
Would make a conspicuous mockery of their robes,
“If a king is wearing rags, who needs more?”
What’s worse, in due time, commoners would be empowered
To rise.

Now, if royalty came to dwell with villagers,
The royal court would be aghast with rumor,
How absurd to assume a position lower than the court.
Courtiers who trust would ponder in awe, others with side-eye,
“Has he taken this village project too far?”
It would draw the former to praise but goad the latter
To resign.

Oh how my Christmas wonder turns tepid.

Notice his corporeal arrival did not with staggering glory
Pierce the earth—he exerted only seven pounds. But when he
Pressed through the word-hardened, razor-thin mesh of time-space,
His eternal character riven into ordained parcels of suffering service—
Night one’s saliva-smeared bed, a starved wilderness, legion of demons, violent storm, his locust-breath baptizer beheaded, a smothering crowd, a friend dead too soon, blood in the pores, betrayal executed, abandonment swallowed, heel struck—
It became clear this side of his linearized expression, he was the one
Pierced.

In the fullness of time he came with no pageantry.
The first touch he felt of royal purple cloak, he wore it
Like the weight of the world—his mock coronation crushed him.
Yet take heed the ascendant pattern by which:
“I have overcome the world.”
Self-attested living water poured all he had and accomplished rescue
In thirst.

The proud are scattered. The ear that hears is upheld.
When his splendor comes to well up inside your core,
Chances are, it won’t be when you’re feeling rich.
You’ll find him far beneath the blinding lights—
Bathroom floor, hospital bed, weary with incompetence, alone at the holiday table, imprisoned by shame, paralyzed with fear, overwhelmed with regret, broken by abuse, poor in spirit, crippled by loss—
Where you lay, tangible as manger’s hay or broiled fish, he’ll bivouac there
First.

© Tanner Rinke 2023