A Poem For The King

 Six months ago. Bishops in the House of Lords sent an open letter to The Times, saying

"Many [refugees] are desperate people fleeing unspeakable horrors. Many are Iranians, Eritreans and Sudanese citizens, who have an asylum grant rate of at least 88 per cent. These are people Jesus had in mind as he said when we offer hospitality to a stranger, we do it for him. They are the vulnerable that the Old Testament calls us to value. We cannot offer asylum to everyone, but we must not outsource our ethical responsibilities, or discard international law — which protects the right to claim asylum.

We must end the evil trafficking; many churches are involved in fighting this evil. This needs global co-operation across every level of society. To reduce dangerous journeys to the UK we need safe routes: the church will continue to advocate for them. But deportations — and the potential forced return of asylum seekers to their home countries — are not the way. This immoral policy shames Britain."

Sadly the Government seems to take no notice. I actually heard a Tory MP being interviewed on Radio 4 this week, who complained "There are too many people preaching from pulpits at the moment" [excuse me, what else do you do with a pulpit? use it to store chutney, keep back copies of Gardeners' World, recycle it into a coffee table...]  The Rwanda plan is appalling

 A week ago, the annual Royal Carol Service was held at Westminster Abbey [Princesses Katherine and Charlotte both in magenta coats!] The King had a selected the following poem to be read by actress Dame Kristen Scott Thomas. It was written about 10 years ago by Anglican priest-poet, Malcolm Guite.

REFUGEE

We think of him as safe beneath the steeple,

Or cosy in a crib 

beside the font,

But he is with a million displaced people

On the long road of weariness and want.

For even as we sing our final carol

His family is up and on that road,

Fleeing the wrath of someone else’s quarrel,

Glancing behind and shouldering their load.

Whilst Herod rages still from his dark tower

Christ clings to Mary, fingers tightly curled,

The lambs are slaughtered by the men of power,

And death squads spread their curse across the world.

But every Herod dies, and comes alone

To stand before the Lamb upon the throne.

If this is our King's choice of poem for this year's Royal Carols, I think his Mum would have been proud of him. And I look forward to his speech on Christmas Day!