No Room

No room, he said, there is no room;
there's no room here for you.
But there's a stable you can use;
I'm sure that it will do.

I wonder just how Mary felt
when they were turned away.
I wonder if she softly wept,
and what did Joseph say?

I wonder if he held her hand
that cold night,
assuring her that everything
would somehow be all right.

And did the keeper of the inn
feel guilt, remorse, and shame,
or did he merely look at them
with arrogant disdain?

I wonder if the animals
awoke from where they slept
and grazed awhile upon the hay,
and if the stable smelt.

I wonder if she shivered much
in piercing, frigid clime,
and if she agonized in birth,
and did it take much time?

I wonder if she wept with joy;
did Joseph beam with pride
and gaze upon his little son
asleep at Mary's side?

I wonder if the shepherds knew,
when they heard angels sing,
the baby born upon this night
was born to be the King.

As Christ seeks entry to all hearts,
transgressions to inhume,
I wonder why that still today
so many say no room.