The wise men bedecked in their fancy brocade

Looked into the face of the holy babe.

It shone with a molten, golden light,

Nearly blinded their eyes and banished the night.

They were filled with a deep, inspiring awe

That hung in the air all around the stall.

The smell of the hay was a holy smell.

The bell on the cow was a holy bell.

The ground underfoot was holy ground.

The scraping of hooves was a holy sound.

The wind that blew through and on its way

Was as nectared flowers on a summer day.

All that was rough and plain and low

Was seen that moment in the holy glow

Of the containment of peace and wisdom and love:

What’d been seen as below was revealed as above.

The whole great world was turned upside down

For each bending head below each crown.

And all that was written or sung or said

Of God or Truth or heaven was outspread

As now they were stricken with unkindled light

In the dark, in the stall

On that fateful night.

–“The Magi”– Pamela Ann McDowell Saylor, January 1991