Rampant rumors run roads,
Carving the path they’ll take to Bethlehem.
A petrified patriarch cradles his wife’s hips,
easing her aches as she wobbles on a donkey’s back.
Her gut juts rotund
and the streets burst with lies.
Whispers of adultery, a slut.
Opening herself to the Holy Spirit’s will,
she filleted herself to gossip and assumption.
Depraved humanity mocks the invitation,
scorning a woman willing to bend her will
and a God who would enter the world in a manger.
Will we, like pious Israelites occupy that “moral” ground
or will we bend down to worship a Savior King, who came as an innocent babe?
*This of course could use editing. I’m not quite sure how, but I’m not entirely pleased with the product of this poetry. Perhaps it is my mind run amuck and the piles of papers accumulating at work.