It was bands of cloth from my cloak she wrapped him in so long ago,
And now I find myself giving up my cloak again,
laying my cloak down on the road,
my cloak paving the way
for this parade of nuisances and nobodies.
He comes riding a little brown burro,
a work horse not a war horse,
a little brown burro, so small his feet almost touch the ground,
a little brown burro, not unlike the one his mother rode
to satisfy the census-taking soldiers years ago.
Birth in a borrowed barn!
We are never safe from surprises in a world made cruel.
He was a baby like all the others I’ve brought into the world:
Wet and slippery and full-voiced
until I put him in his mother’s arms,
she who sang of justice to the poor,
her cradle song – her manger song.
Now, on this parade route, we sing Peace.
Peace on earth! We sing as if it’s possible,
just as the angels sang to startled shepherds.
Peace on earth – not just his birth announcement
but his marching orders.
Ours, too.
And so once more I offer him my cloak,
along with all the others who line this back street,
we who have only one cloak to give,
give it
as the hope of the world parades by
on a borrowed brown burro.
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