This is the night
When all our finest art
Pales before the beauty
Of a single shining star.
This is the night
When all of our profoundest symphonies
Fade beneath the swelling
Of a simple angel song.
This is the night
When all the badges of office
Are smothered in the folds
Of a rough-woven tunic
And the sceptres of power give way
To a humble shepherds staff.
This is the night
When man's swiftest wheels and wings
Prove far inadequate
And he treads, instead, the path
Of a camel's caravan.
This is the night
When the unkind act is frozen still
And is buried in the desert sand . . .
When the first sharp word falls soundlessly
And is swallowed by the desert air.
This is the night
When princes, and kings, and presidents
Make one obeisance . . .
When diplomats forsake finesse
And ministers their chambers . . .
When a worried world abandons argument
In the quiet of a stable.
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