"First, are you the right sort of person?
A crucifix, a steeple, the star on a tree
are higher than our ability.
We only see what the in-group sees."
Christ said, "Touch my hem that is low to the ground."
But the sanctimonious Christians have found
the air is sweeter in their country clubs
and their city penthouse that's been scrubbed clean of drugs.
Their Christmas parties are catered events
but didn't He say, invite the runts-
the shamed, the defiled?
The homeless haunt
the shadowed halls where charity walks.
"He won't fit in, he's not like us
in consecrated castles. His cardboard hut
will fall to pieces and dirty our linen,
and starched, pressed promises of secrets forbidden.
He'd see right through us-we can't get caught."
"Tell him the guest list is much too full.
Next time we'll observe the golden rule.
Only the beautiful people with beautiful hair,
diamond jewelry and savoir faire
will sit at our table as we dine
on flesh of the poor, and sparkling wine."
And blood, heaps of blood, everywhere.
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