He's the Paradox by R. L. Busséll

This is the second day since I left Him.

I left Him crowned in royal poverty.

I left with a gift of mem’ry to hymn

until my throat was rich in charity.

What am I to do? I've seen God enfleshed,

seen the Divine suckle at the breast,

seen Living Water by mother refreshed,
seen God’s Word by a father’s breath caressed.
It seems time would’ve shuddered to a halt

when the Timeless One slept with ass and ox,

when the Bread of Life was sprinkled with salt,

when I bent to present His gold-filled box.

He’s the paradox: Prophet, Priest, and King;
the Word—fleshed, yet, I recall His babbling.

R. L. Busséll is a poet who never thought he would bear any resemblance to a writer. He earned a Bachelor of Arts in History from the University of North Texas, works as a draftsman, has been known to paint portraits, dabble in design, dip digital pen into digital ink, and wonder about the wonder of clouds. He lives in Texas with the wife-of-his-youth and his rose.