But today is a special day, regardless of my--or anyone else's--incoherence. I must mark it!
Here is my beloved John Donne, metaphysical poet extraordinaire (and, in my humble opinion, a witness in his own Anglican way to the theology of the body), on the Incarnation. You really have to read it aloud to get the full effect.
Salvation to all that will is nigh
That All, which always is all everywhere,
Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear,
Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die,
Lo, faithful virgin, yields Himself to lie
In prison, in thy womb; and though He there
Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet He will wear,
Taken from thence, flesh, which death's force may try.
Ere by the spheres time was created, thou
Wast in His mind, who is thy Son and Brother,
Whom thou conceivst, conceived; yea thou art now
Thy Maker's maker, and the Father's mother,
Thou hast light in dark, and shutst in little room,
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb.