Inglorious

The glitter on the creche

Seduces me from how inglorious His comings and goings were.

His feet filthy from offal paths until someone thought to wash them,

His hands unwashed, as the Pharisees noted.

No beauty to behold except in a peek on a peak.

Mostly,

His sandal soles dragging up dirt and fronds, muleback,

A towel around His waist in a shanghaied room,

A lone figure squatting over a breakfast fire.

Loaned food, found tax, borrowed burial.

Inglorious, yes, His going:

The Savior on a stake;

Bookends His coming:

A God in a trough.

© Latayne C. Scott