This trough, or manger, was itself the grave
Of the Bethlemite, bier’d umbilical,
Let down by navel string, into this cave,
This world within womb, apocalyptical
Trumpets, tambors and symbols blare his ministry,
In lowing of cattle, fire’s crack, and the infant cries,
If we’d have ears to hear we’d muse divinity,
In every birth, every act of his babbling guise,
And ask shall this new born babe himself decay,
When his Parable’s stretched to the very rack,
When on some tree he shall himself re-lay
To die the innumerable death, still on his back?
Or shall we shout his resurrect on every third day,
When out some womb he does himself display?
Cheers to your Sunday morning…