He rumbles cross the heavens,
thunders, lighting up the sky.
I call him Little Lord Jesus,
ask that he lay down his head.
Dubbing diminutives does keep him
sweeter in my mind – like watching
a child sleep recalibrates appraisal.
The child, holy terror when awake.
Holy terror.
It’s a full time occupation
fashioning a Savior out of platitudes
and adjectives and lore, but surely
worth the doing if he will persist
in being paradox incarnate.
Holy terror.
He’s more agreeable in crowds,
in company tamped down.
If I am to affiliate I will have him
meek and mild. But half his relatives
– this my brother, these my friends –
will cause a rumpus, so reliably dismay.
It is a sorry business.
Holy terror.
I dress him today in seasonal apparel,
what with Lent and all. Presentable,
if only just. If only for the moment.
Getting him to stand still in one place
when he is everywhere doing everything
is quite beyond me.
I do my best.
He does his worst.
I do mean:
Holy terror.
Not the Savior that I had in mind.
Far too wild, too loving and too kind,
entirely too dimensional, articulated,
unconfined, still, inexplicably inclined,
in spite of reservations I design,
to find him, and frequently, a splendor:
Holy terror.