On the road south to Egypt,
with the baby nursed into
a milk-coma and tucked from
sight of eyes that mustn’t see
a holy child on the lam,
(though why the divine father
in the trinity of parents didn’t
think to douse the astral light
before the not-so-wise men
appeared and asked a king
known for slaughtering his
own sons where they might find
the boy who would usurp him
is a theodicean mystery)
did the human parents hear
the screams of mothers who
couldn’t hide their sons
from the heavenly spotlight
or the soldiers’ blades?
Were there not enough
angels to go around?
It would be years before
they could return, the king
dead and all those childless
women long lost to madness.
© Dana Hughes 2.10.18
Furthermore... 
I didn’t leave this comment on your FB page, because I saw that the matter was already becoming controverted, and I didn’t want to pour fuel on that fire. But I want to say that what really compels me about this poem is its unwillingness to let “God”–or whatever ultimate reality lurks behind that semantic construct–off the hook for the bloodshed then and now. Thanks for being bold enough to say it.