In Bethelehem, a brother born
Was claimed a King on Christmas morn.
But Kings no longer haunt the world
Their bloody battle flag is furled
The people of the world all free
To speak their mind, to disagree
To recognize reality.
A King of Kings rules only One,
Himself. Each human thread is spun
Separate, forseen with God's eyes,
Naked of words and world's disguise
To make a self-willed tapestry
Where every thread imparts its hue
As it is warped the fabric through
And helps decide the patterned weave
That its brief span will finally leave
On the loom of human history.
True wisdom is to see this sight;
The finished cloth in perfect light
With vision clear of gauzy thread
That clings to each and every head.
Awake! Awake! Humanity.