Away, be a stranger

...meanwhile, on Earth, things aren't quite going as planned... God: "I know what to do! I'll send my amazing, wise, brilliant, beloved son for them to berate, abuse and crucify. That'll show 'em!" I could never, not even as a small child, connect the beatific Christmas baby to the tortured and broken young man of Easter. There is no celebration for me: a child born, loved and raised, with one sole divine purpose: to be sacrificed, in order to somehow free humanity from the 'sin' that was programmed into us by his supposedly unearthly 'father' - some faulty, vengeful, often petty, sometimes glorious, omnipotent deity? Come now, Western man, is this the best we can do for Sunday morning entertainment? I see a wonderful, brilliant, brave, insightful, ultimately tragic man, betrayed by a civilisation which, even now, is unable to accept the simple words that he said: 'Be excellent to each other'. (Now, you zealots: turn the other cheek.) Verse 1 Away in a manger no crib for a bed, The little Lord Jesus lays down his sweet head. The stars in the bright sky look down where he lay, The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay. Verse 2 The cattle are lowing the baby awakes, He'll be raising the dead with the noise that he makes. Strangers come and go all through the long winter's night; Joseph gather up your family, slip away before light. Middle8 Take the gold, ditch the frankincense, Take the donkey, leave the myrrh. Close your ears to all this mystical nonsense, To archangels, prophecies and heavenly choir. Take the boy and keep him safe From misguided men and gods alike; What sick mind could take this pure and perfect child And turn him into a sacrifice? Verse 3 You will watch him with wonder, he will learn, he will grow, But the lessons he'll teach us we already know. Mothers crying for dead children since the world was begun, So Mary, whisper these words to your beautiful son - Verse 4 'In 30 short years you'll be nailed to a tree, And although you will suffer no reason there'll be; Two millennia in the future things will still be as bad, So grow old, be a carpenter just like your dad.' Tacet final verse (You're not like me, O Father, and I'll tell you why: Sit there safely in heav'n, send your sole son to die. So this is the best plan your great mind can make: Crucify this poor boy to make good your mistake?)