Wasn’t it always his undying
Love first attracted us

And not that rogue star
Made followers—nor the

Crèche and its accoutrements

(Or the bloody tree)

The dark day itself spent alone
With nary the holy family—

And yet came next morning—none
Too soon—
And the stoning of Stephen

Seeing that old man in deep snow
Caroling—like the image of poor Christ
Right from Dostoyevsky—

Inviting him into paradise.