to zits, and shit, and blushes; to knowing, long ere death,
the surety that time runs out, essentials left undone,
and love, and fear, and hope, and pain, to anger and to fun.
Each birth is still miraculous, let angels blaze the sky,
let shepherds gather from the fields, let passing kings call by,
here's life grown in a body, give frankincense, give sheep,
then meet the Child's new knowing gaze, the miracle, and weep.
Yes, we all live like Jesus, we're each one wise at ten,
debating foolish scholars, confounding dull old men,
we all have moneychangers, tables to overturn,
coins we must render Caesar, temptations, much to learn.
We all live with the knowledge that miracles come too dear
that bread and fish may stretch for once but the hungry are always here,
we have all raged at oppression, all wished the blind their sight
we have all paced Gethsemane and tried to do what's right.
At death, we feel forsaken, yet hope stirs in each heart,
the world's in our hands, every day, we need to do our part.
At Christmas there's a cradle, we laugh, though it's no joke
the world that we're all here to save, all God made normal folk.