I believe the Word became Flesh.
And not clean skin, but the dirty stuff.
The word which was from the beginning,
Made a baby, who soiled his diaper.
Who grew chubby on his mother’s milk,
And spit it up on his step dad’s shoulder.
Who peed on them while they changed his diapers.
Who screamed at them when he was hungry,
And cooed as he drifted off to sleep in their arms.
Who had pimples on his young face,
And eventually grew hair he couldn’t explain.
Who walked in arid lands, sweating profusely,
And didn’t wear deodorant.
Who cut himself, and bled, and sucked the wound until it stopped,
And began to see others cut, by empire and his own religion.
Who was so moved by the injustice he saw around him,
That he went around healing all who were oppressed
Even those who played a part in the oppression.
Who suffered an unjust death for touching the untouchable,
And loving the unlovable.
Who was made death,
And decided to let death die,
And then, death was no more.
I believe the Word became Death.