"The Whip of Advent" by Tristan Gylberd

 The pitch of the stall was glorious

Though the straw was dusty and old

Though it blew bitter and cold

The wind sang with orchestral beauty

The night was mysteriously gleaming

Though the earth was fallen, forlorn

For under the eaves of splendor

A child-The Child-was born

Oxen Sheep and doves

Crowded round Nativity's scene

Though the world still failed to grasp

T’was here that peace had been

Cast out into a cave

When no room was found for Him

His coming was a scourge

That cleansed a robber's den

While the Temple's become a cattle stall

Where beasts and such are sold

The Child's turned Manger into Temple

And changed the base to gold

Tis the paradox of the ages:

Worldly wisdom will ne're relent

To notice signs of visitation

Nor the cords of the whip of Advent