The Complete Creche Songs

Crèche Songs 

David Novak 

(c)2001-2006

Bethlehem 

If you tell the story often enough 

You begin to believe it. 

Of course we had been the City of David, 

Which put us in the running. 

Location, location, location. 

The details helped: 

The star, the kings, 

And that bit about the census. 

An anachronism, true, but what of it? 

Science indulges in far greater margins for error 

And as storytelling goes, it’s nothing 

Compared to what they did to Nicholas of Myra. 

Good press for the North Pole 

But tough luck for Myra. 

So all in all we are happy 

To be the place where it all started. 

Not bad for a little town, huh?

The Ass 

Time was, 

I could chew a blade of grass 

And gaze lazily into the distance all day. 

My mouth would sing with juices, 

My back would hum in the sun. 

But I was taught to carry. 

And if I should drift away to gaze again into the distance 

I was always reminded of my burden and my task: 

To carry, and to wear so many cares. 

In time, 

My cares became me 

And I ceased to seek a heaven in the idle act of living. 

I did not ponder this 

Until that time I carried into Bethlehem 

An unborn child 

Who, likewise, 

Gave up his bliss 

For burdens.

The Bitch 

These people dismay me. 

How is it that such fundamental things 

Are so difficult for them? 

If I had not been there, they had been lost. 

The man was useless, 

The woman was helpless. 

But birth is ordinary work for me. 

I, it was, who licked the baby clean 

So his eyes might open 

And his lungs might breath. 

(And when they did, what a howl! 

It sounded the world’s sorrow. 

And when he slept, all the world was peace.) 

I gave him breath. 

I gave him my manger too, 

Already warm. 

The couple looked on gratefully 

And helpless.

The Spider

I taught the fisherman my art 

Which comes down to this: 

Much work making ready the lines 

Then much waiting. 

Flies, like fish, are drawn to bright lights. 

Any brightness, no matter how far off, 

Will make a migration. 

The trick is to run the lines between 

So thin and fine that they, 

Gazing far off, 

Do not see what is right in front of them 

Until it is too late. 

The hunting was good that night. 

I laid many stores by, 

Some still straining their wings 

Unaware of being caught. 

I however, being sated, 

Was at peace.

The Cow 

I groan with milk 

And yearn to nurse. 

My calves do not stay long enough. 

Too soon they are taken from me, 

And I must yield my teats to strange hands; 

A forced expression, but a relief. 

I have learned to be content 

With mothering others not mine. 

Mothering is enough. 

More, it is a desperate need. 

A longing. 

Come to me, feed of me. 

Take this my body unto you. 

Take this and think of me 

And we will become one. 

I am all communion 

Or nothing. 

Now, even as the human calf calls, 

I let down 

And groan to nurse.

The Camel 

Spit. 

You would if, like me, you were choked 

With desert dust. 

Out here every slight movement 

Makes the air thick, 

Makes the breathing hard, 

Makes me want to spit. 

That night we arrived 

And stopped at last 

There was stillness enough for the air to clear. 

How sweet the clear, still air is to me. 

Sweeter than water. 

Water is defense, but air is heaven. 

My breath was easy, 

I sipped the air like nectar. 

What was most rewarding that night 

After so long a sojourn 

After so many days and nights 

Of cloudy way-making, 

Was watching the dust settle. 

Sparkling motes of starlight 

Slowly sinking back to earth 

Into stillness. 

Into a truly silent night.

The Father 

Love, brimless, impelled me here. 

All fear, like shade, made light 

In Love’s bright promise. 

We said “Yes!” 

Now I am here. 

No home, no prospects; 

Danger imminent as night. 

Love’s bright promise recedes. 

All I see before me now 

Is needy mother and helpless child 

And a life of selfless labor. 

Such is Love’s assumption: 

Without profit or reward 

To give and to give over. 

The child of such Love must 

In his own turn 

Likewise give over. 

What black night is it 

So deep, so hungry, 

That feeds on all light, all sound 

Yielding only Nothing?

The Goat 

No beginnings but presage The End. 

All life feeds Death. 

My milk, my meat, my skin 

Will be taken. 

Even my bladder 

Dry 

Will yield a plaintive bleating. 

Of all my uses this, my song, 

Most endures 

To voice the desperate futility of Being. 

Gone gone 

This wine becomes piss 

This flesh, clay 

This hope? 

Gone 

Even this child of Joy and Light 

Shall be larded for Lamentations. 

In the end my song 

Shall be His. 

The Star 

Its funny 

That an event a billion years past arrives in view of these people 

And is taken for a sign. 

Beings that seek significance in events 

Will see significance in events. 

If it is there it has meaning 

If it is not there 

Still it has meaning 

Where I am 

Event is all 

But to those that seek signs 

There must be Time as well 

Time before and time yet to come 

And in the events 

The sign most often seen 

Is one’s self 

It is not enough to happen 

They must be assured that 

They were 

They are 

They will be 

Its funny

The Innkeeper 

Everybody needs something 

Shelter 

Food 

Rest 

These are the things I provide 

Even when I don’t have them 

You find a better solution, go ahead 

In the heat of the moment 

With everyone clambering for your attention.

A stable is a good warm place. 

In truth it is often my extra room 

During high season. 

The storytellers pounced on it. 

Everybody needs something 

A stage for their little drama 

A chance at immortality 

Something to give them hope. 

I’m just the guy who is trying to get what he wants 

By giving others what they need. 

The Midwife 

There were many births that night. 

By the time I reached the stable

The old mother dog had the baby well in hand. 

I cut his cord and swaddled him, 

Then attended to the mother. 

I cleaned her and brought the babe to her breast. 

The father was kind and gentle and not at all reluctant to help. 

Of course I had heard the rumors, 

But I am skeptical of virgin births 

And the assumptions that go along with them. 

All children are sacred 

And the loving union of man and woman is divinity enough. 

What god requires such miracles to prove himself? 

An insecure one I’m thinking. 

If you doubt me then tell me 

What other than an insecure god would allow all my babes 

to come under Herod’s sword? 

Don’t get me started. 

All I have to say is 

He’d better not show himself to me 

If He knows what’s good for Him. 

The Sheep 

You tell the story 

And have placed me in it, 

Albeit in the background. 

If I had your sensibilities I might complain. 

But such things do not concern me. 

I was there before and remained there after, 

While your story only passed thru for a short visit. 

Long enough for wanderers to wonder. 

But I have no need for the extra ordinary. 

To me the stars are always bright 

The days always prophetic. 

Bliss is no special occasion. 

Mere existence, 

Sweet grass, sweet rest, 

Is all one and enough for me. 

For your sake the story calls attention to these 

Ordinary things. 

And if attention is paid, 

Treasure will be found 

Better than any wandering kings 

Might carry.