Here comes wisdom on the road star-gazing ladened with heavy-scented gifts soon to be laid at the twin feet as yet untested of an infant without the slightest clue of a gift’s real market value. Did somebody in the benighted stable— a woke shepherd? a bitter angel?— foreshadow the sharp question that was decades later to cut through the cloud of expensive love released from alabaster to fill a lonesome room in a town called Bethany at the opposite end of this new life? Why wasn’t all this sold for cash remitted to the poor? What’s a baby going to do with pounds and pounds of costly myrrh? Ask the have-nots if they had these or queries of the like on that most holy, silent night.