The Beggar and the King

The first Sunday in Advent has been and gone, and I have missed my chance to sing 'O Come O Come Emmanuel' for another year.  But, on the theme of Emmanuel, God with us, I want to share a poem - The Beggar and the King.

I am not a poet.  I've never been much of a creative writer.  But I wrote this almost without stopping.  Given that it was written in a prayer room, the idea of 'divine inspiration' can't be too far off.  Certainly my previous attempts at poetry would confirm that, on my own, I am not the next Robert Browning.  Or the next anyone.

That's my disclaimer.  Now enjoy the poem...

He stumbles.

He falls into the gritty, dirty snow and ice,

his bare feet blue with cold and red with blood.

His burden falls from his back,

and is soaked in grime and slush.

As he pushes himself up,

his naked arms quiver and tremble –

there is no strength in them now.

He cries out in frustration,

a wild call of a desperate man,

a fractured call of a failed man.

He stops trying to get up.

He just lies, face down in the snow and ice and grit.

He gives in to it.

Then…footsteps –

strong, sturdy, confident steps,

coming closer, closer…

He sees the boots –

strong, sturdy boots of a rich man.

Then he sees a hand, stretched down to him.

With his last strength he lifts his skinny, weary arm

to the rich man.

Immediately, he is pulled to his feet,

as easily as a father lifts his little child.

Now he sees:

The boots are met at the knee by thick trousers,

a warm cloak covers layers of fine cloth,

a scarf wraps round the neck,

a cap on the head,

but warmest of all

is the Face of the King.

For this must be the King.  He knows it is true.

But the King takes of his hat, his scarf…

Is he too hot?  No, he starts to shiver.

But he doesn’t stop-

now he takes off the cloak,

the fine cloth layers,

even his trousers,

and the boots.

The Beggar stands shivering with the King.

They are not so different now –

barefoot in the snow.

“My clothes are for you.  Put them on.”

The Beggar looks at the King,

shivering in his undergarments,

fingers already blue-tinted,

teeth chattering.

“My clothes are for you.  Put them on.”

The Beggar cannot feel his feet.

He grabs those study boots and pulls them on.

Feeling the warmth return to his toes,

his appetite is wetted…

He pulls the trousers over,

slips the fine cloth over his arms,

wraps the cloak around his body,

then the scarf,

then the hat.

He can feel the blood running warm through his veins.

His strength is returning.

In the corner of his eye he glimpses the King,

still standing barefoot, trembling,

and now carrying the Beggar’s burden.

And the Beggar, robed like a King,

kneels down,

and bows,

and weeps with gratitude

before the humbled king, robed like a Beggar.