Christ | Christmas | Incarnation | Poetry | Praise

A baby slung in a feedbox/Back in a barn, in a Bethlehem slum./A baby’s first cry mixed with the crunch/Of a mule’s teeth on Bethlehem Christmas corn./Baby fists, softer than snowflakes in Norway./The vagabond mother of Christ/And the vagabond men of wisdom,/All in a barn on a winter night,/And a baby there in swaddling cloth on hay./Why does the story never wear out? Carl Sanburg, in Sunday Sermons, Nov/Dec, 1985, Volume 15, Number 6, page 19.

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