Melancholy Majesty
The heavenly king rules in a crib
The word made flesh can only cry,
Such a bad place to bear a child,
More likely than not doomed to die.
The moaning wind,
Untimely star:
And who knows where the soldiers are?
A strange light over shepherd fields,
Voices like thunder freeze the sheep:
With sound and light and quake nightmares
Burst into shallow, fitful sleep:
What demons these
And what good news?
Yet a prompt they cannot refuse.
A simple tune, a quiet prayer
Bathed in wondrous tranquility:
The lamb of God warmed by a lamb
In melancholy majesty.