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The American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay once wrote a biting, ironic poem called "To Jesus on His Birthday." Surely none of us can deny guilt in some of the areas it includes in its brief scope:

For this, your mother sweated in the cold,

For this you bled upon the bitter tree:

A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold;

A paper wreath; a day at home for me.

The merry bells ring out, the people kneel;

Up goes the man of God before the crowd;

With voice of honey and with eyes of steel

He drones your humble gospel proud.

Nobody listens. Less than the wind that blows

Are all your words to us you died to save.

O, Prince of Peace! O, Sharon’s Rose!

How mute you lie within your vaulted grave.

The stone the angel rolled away with tears

Is back upon your mouth these thousand years.

Perhaps this poem is...

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