Can he who hurls the lightening from the top
and swirls the rain,
disarm us with a baby’s grin and stop
earth’s spin? Then start again?
Can he be like a jester – on his head –
quite turned around?
Or is it us – bewildered thoughts unsaid –
who’re upside down?
Of course, the problem’s us and not with God.
We think we Know.
We think our view is true – and his plain odd.
But he’s below
so far is he above. He is a mite,
so vast is he,
so full of life as to become finite –
an infant God. And poor, do not forget.
So strange, this tale.
We hear it year by year and love it, yet
we simply fail
to follow footsteps leading down. We fall
instead – yes, all –
which is as well because the paradox, recall,
is this: God’s small.