Nativity of an Illegal

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It amazes me
to hear one say
“Jesus was no refugee.”

Splitting hairs, I see.

Sure, Egypt was in Rome,
And so was Palestine—
There’s the big D—
Fine, then sit with this:

A fugitive was he—

That’s right—
An “illegal” on the run.
No, I didn’t say
Immigrant, son—
An “illegal”, what fun.

You see,
Which ever way
Ignorance spins it today,
The good Lord above
Was never the love,

Bruv,

Of those in the guv.
Illegal for being born,
Forced out in the night
To escape a king’s scorn—
Just as Isaiah warned.

The antivenom to victor’s law.

His birth the signal, raw,
That pompous power—a flaw—
Would one day take a final blow
To its fucking jaw.

No, not through force,
Nor through getting tons of toys,
Nor by labeling them

Only for girls or boys.

Not by singing carols,
Or playing really nice;
Nor by baking stollens,
With cinnamon and spice.

Rather,
That blow comes
Through self-sacrifice
.
Not just his; nay—
Though he paid the price—
Those who conspire with him;

For them,
Only rebellion will suffice.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.

Tittu