The Debt to the Wise and the Foolish

 Here the child born is resting,  in this humble manger near,  here the God of heaven's nesting,  for the creatures he holds so dear.  See the example set before us, See the Lord of Lords he sleeps,  resting by the heart of Mary,  human now with infant's feet.  God of all, become an infant,  Maker of all, become a child,  see the Beauty of the Ages, Ancient of Days, in youth most mild. 

I gave this answer on Facebook, but I figured I'd also share it here; I am addressing this blog post that was shared on Facebook.  Romans 5:14 is typically taken as signifying that Adam is the type of Christ i.e. Jesus is the 'new Adam'; but clearly there are some rather obvious differences between Adam and Christ, Christ is sinless, Adam sinned, Christ is a divine person, Adam a human person, etc. the article you link points out dissimilarities between Mary and the Ark, but if I can do the same with a type we know the bible itself aproves, then this is no counter argument.  The author does not adequately address this argument, they grant that types have limits, but say that some people will see types where there are none, and insists that the Catholic typology regarding Mary is one such type. The argument he gives is essentially that Jesus is the more suitable type for the Ark, because the Ark is the most important thing in the temple, and that the temple is the type of ...

 Paradox did plieu,  dromphin' bout the daily do draggin doppin down the dall drinking wit'coudor, round the fall Pradapox did daily do playin' peana with Cindy-loo who, draggin daisies through the didgeridoo Paradox did willin'ly do take lamphadox with creedly la sou, and creedly jumpeded lacy,  who unfortunately knew, exactly how to make another Pepe la-puex.  So sing a rong of ronsense, to go along with plieu and dring a fong of nonsense, to go along with the tune. 

 I had the thought of a poem in which,  I'd say very little with much and I'd talk and tap and turn and twist, but my words would but kick up dust. I had a thought of a poem for which, I'd make a good bit of noise, and I'd romp and blast and banter and spit,  but my words would have no poise. I had a thought of a poem for which,  I'd have very little to say, and I'd write and whittle and draw and fiddle, but my words would be but a play.  I wrote that poem, now just now, in the words I wanted to write it and it had three parts and an ending, and it ended with the word 'goodbye'.