I want to worship the next baby I see.
I don't care whether it’s a girl or a boy,
brought forth in a stable or a subway station,
rich or poor, amber, peach, or burnt umber.
I don't care if it’s your child or mine,
human or divine, I just want to worship
whoever is crying the first Word.
I am hungry for the bread of original
innocence, the fallen star of her face
gazing up into my eyes, making them
equally wonderful this morning.
Let me bow down and press her
butterscotch soles to my forehead,
and give her the gift of golden laughter,
the frankincense of this breath,
myrrh that oozes from a broken heart.
I am thirsty to hear the suck of milk
from a nipple this morning, the sound
of the tender generous bruise
that makes any morning holy.
I won't wait for moons and planets
to align, or for the Messiah.
How many evenings and dawns
have I already missed her,
looking for someone else?
Whether the child is yours or mine,
human or divine, a citizen of this
nation or that nation, I don't care.
We are all natives of Christ's Kingdom.
Just let me worship the next baby
I see.
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