Poems (Kennedy)/The King

by Sara Beaumont Kennedy

THE KING

(DECEMBER 24)

HE does not come to those who hoard
 Their bounty in their own four walls,
Who spend upon themselves and theirs,
 Nor hear the hungry, outside calls—
    The King who comes tonight.

He comes instead to those who share
 Their crusts or gold with pain and need;
He has no key to unlock breasts
 Grown rusty through their selfish greed—
    The King who comes tonight.

This is His feast; he bids the guests
 Who gather with him at the board.
He only asks if we have served
 His poor—their hope and faith restored—
    The King who comes tonight.

As in the muted viol sleeps the song,
 As in the opal burns the flame,
So in the heart swept clean of self
 There lies the wonder of his name—
    The King who comes tonight.