We think of him as safe 

beneath the steeple,

Or cozy in a crib beside the 

font,

But he is with a million 

displaced people

On the long road of weariness 

and want.

For even as we sing our final 

carol

His family is up and on that 

road,

Fleeing the wrath of someone 

else's quarrel,

Glancing behind and 

shouldering their load.

Whilst Herod rages still from 

his dark tower,

Christ clings to Mary, fingers 

tightly curled,

The lambs are slaughtered by 

the men of power,

And death squads spread their 

curse across the world.

But every Herod dies, and 

comes alone

To stand before the Lamb  

upon the throne.