He was the life of her new world,
the death of her old one,
the death of her sin.

He is a warrior,
a radical,
a servant,
an immigrant,
a lion,
a lamb,
a friend.

He is our Master,
but we are not His slaves.
His words are the plasma
that sears our souls.
Sometimes He is the part of a ménage à trois
that comes between lovers.

He lived,
even in death,
for there was not one moment—
even as a baby in the manger—
that He was not aware,
for He was the human form of God,
confined by neither space nor time.

He is in us,
one of us,
and for us,
always.