Now that I am old, I wonder how we made the journey. The king said through gritted teeth that, yes, he too longed to worship. His scribes whispered. The royal guard fingered their swords. And afterward, the warning vision that haunts my dreams still, the flight through trackless wastes.
But at twilight, my city’s golden spires glint, and sweet smoke drifts from places of mourning. Then I think of mad Baalam on wind-swept Peor, seeing a star rise out of Jacob.
The star that we followed.
The Star that we found.
Then I wonder how we could have ever left.