Why do they stew in their own spleen
in a bath that boils but does not clean?
These earthy kings lump clay on clod,
Cushion themselves with clumps of sod.
A mud-pie of nations, their crude device,
Against our God and against his Christ:
“Unbraid that rope! Slice up that tether!
And melt this grapnel they’ve forged together.”
But, sitting in holy Heaven, He laughs.
God laughs at their sapless feeble crafts.
He pays them angry words for wage,
And burdens them with aching rage:
“And I! I have already crowned
My king at Zion’s glory mound.”
What Spirit is whispering songs to me?
“You’re my own birthday child,” sings He.
“And if you reach out one small hand,
I’ll fill your fist with sweet rich sand,
so you can crush this grainy globe,
and sweep the dust beneath your robe.”
So then, sand-kings, plow carefully.
Go work your ground judiciously.
Jehovah God has named a boy.
Go kneel to him with quaking joy.
To soothe His fury, love His Son.
The battle of Earth, it has been won.
And trusting then in trembling bliss,
seal up your trusting with a kiss.
(illustration by Heather Larson)