Masters

The Magi study the lore of the sky. Why?
For what far-off famine gather these stores,
for what great battle sharpen these swords?

No miserly hoards of treasure here,
no galleries to show the mind's fine art;
old masters of science, but servants of truth –

the stars compel, they leave their fields.
Their science is guide, not goal. They yield,
submit to the Master and follow the star.

Herod, that dangerous madman, fears for his realm.
Master of men, but slave to his mastery,
what can he do? The throne-thrall rages,

but his futile, blind savagery misses its mark,
and dozens of infants scream in stark
unknowing terror. Dozens of voices die.

Lives of learning complete, the Magi come
to the frightened mother, the tiny child. What mastery his?
Thirty years' reprieve brief time to save humanity.

Where will he go? What do? His fresh-formed fist,
clenched and raised from the tiny threshing body, is
the hand of God poised to rewrite the world.