POEM FOR CHRIST THE KING
See how this homeless babe lifted
himself down into his humble Crèche
and laid his tender glove
of skin against that splintered wood –
found refuge in that rack
of raspy straw – home
on that chilly dawn, in sweetest
silage, those shriven stalks.
See how this outcast King lifted
himself high upon his savage Cross,
extended the regal banner
of his bones, draping himself
upon his throne – his battered feet,
his wounded hands not fastened
there by nails but sewn
by the strictest thorn of Love.
© Pamela Cranston, “Poem For Christ the King”, The Anglican, Vol. 34, No. 4, October 2005.