The Nativity by E. Merrill Root

Here is the hinge of history--the hour
Wherefrom the years recede, the years advance--
The night when Love has victory over Power.

A new born child beneath a mother's glance,
God the creator is made manifest,
Born of his creature, flesh of circumstance.

Here, petal-soft against his mother's breast,
He lies who made the sun to be his rose;
Here he who strews the lightenings lies at rest!

O little hands that buoy the nightengale!
How can your fingers sleep in such repose?
And must you, of soft baby feet, rescale
The height of heaven on the driven nail?