A servant King? Don’t make me laugh!
A servant King, indeed!
Kings are meant to sit on thrones,
With precious things to call their own,
While minions meet their needs.
A servant King? What can you mean? A stable? Not a crown?
A servant King? No signet ring? No flunkies bowing down?
His Kingdom’s where? His Kingdom’s what?
Well, now I’ve heard it all!
The King of kings, this servant King, was born where? In a stall?
Right royal nonsense, this all is!
A King of gentle power?
Of righteousness? And truth? And grace? Who triumphs every hour?
Well, let me see him, have a look (when I’ve a window in my day);
At half past four, or five, or six - see what he’s got to say.
So is that him? Your servant King?
A baby! Just this boy?
No sceptre? No attendants? Donkey’s bridle for a toy?
Is this your God? Your deity? The best that you can do?
These strips of cloth, are they his robes? No purple silk to wear?
The servant King! Behold the child! King’s ransom lying there!
© Stephen Poxon 2012