No, I don’t have three French hens. I don’t have three English hens. I don’t even have one hen, of any description. I’m still eating leftover goose, if you must know.
I’ve been eating leftover goose, and trying to catch up with the world, and getting discouraged about politics. The Saviour of the world may have been born but looking at the state of things, “salvation” is not the word that comes to mind… and I know, I’m not suffering, I’m eating goose for crying aloud, but that doesn’t actually make it all right that other people are worrying about how they’re going to get health care, how they’re going to feed their families, how they’re going to find somewhere safe to sleep.
I don’t have a constructive response to this. My instinct is to hold the ones I care about and tell them it will be okay…
So here, have a lullaby.
Swete was the song the Virgine soong
When she to Bethlem Juda came
And was deliver’d of hir Sonne
Who blessed Jesus hath to Name.
“Lulla, lulla, lulla, lullaby,
Lulla, lulla, lulla, lullaby,
Swete Babe!” soong shee;
“My Sonne and eke my Saviour borne,
Which hath vouchsafed from an high
To visitt us that ware forlorne.
La lulla, la lulla, la lullaby,
Swete Babe!” soong she,
And rockt him featly one hir knee.