All the world is a manger.
The snow-bright field and the parking lot,
the quiet woods, the city smog,
the cold alley and the garden bed,
the streets of war, the river bend.
Everywhere, a chance for what is holy
to be born. And how do we treat
this manger? And if a holy child
were born here now, would we know?
Would we see the signs of blessedness
past the neon, through the smoke?
How would we greet this holy child?
All the world is manger.
And when will we remember
every child born is holy?