'Twas the week before Christmas and all
through the place
every
person was caught in the holiday race;
The stockings weren't hung; they'd not even
been found,
and
the cards were not sent, and nowhere around
were the cookies that should have been all
baked and ready;
nor
the ornaments made, nor the dinner plans steady.
And I with a sigh and Mama with a yawn
wondered
how we would finish before Christmas dawn.
There we sat, not so nice, on the living room
couch;
one
tired and sad, and the other a grouch.
Perhaps we were snoozing; I don't really
know,
but
something or someone had startled us so
that we sprang to our feet to see what was
the matter
while
our hearts raced ahead of their usual patter.
When what to our wondering eyes should appear
but
a village alive 'neath a night starry clear.
"Come this way," a voice seemed to
lead us along
through
a close, winding street towards the sound of a song.
There were people all over, crushed shoulder
to shoulder,
so
to stay with our guide we pushed on a bit bolder
until we were standing in front of a door
that
was open, revealing a bare, earthen floor
and a rude, little room set with a straw and
a trough
and
a trio of doves cooing down from a loft.
"More water!" another voice hurried
on by;
then
a shout, "He is here!" and a woman's sharp cry.
And the song was replaced by a baby's first
squall,
and
a poor woman's tears from her nest in the stall.
"He is beautiful!" now a man softly
exclaimed,
and
his voice starting humming the song once again.
And taking his shawl, then the baby was
clothed
in
the prayers of his father and the love of all those
who had gathered to marvel at this
long-waited birth
of
a child and a promise and a hope for the earth.
"Yeshua is his name," soft the
voice of his mother;
"God
will save" was the murmur from one to another;
And the crowd backed away, and the babe fell
asleep,
and
the man looked to heaven and started to weep.
"Forgive me for doubting" he pled
to the sky,
"all
the words of the prophets from days long gone by
that you'd never abandon your creatures
below."
And
again came his song in a voice rich and low:
a simple refrain as his lullaby swelled,
"I
love you, my child, my Emmanuel."
And then the dream vanished as quickly it
came;
and
we wakened to find most our things much the same.
Still the presents and parties and jobs to be
done,
still
the days over full and the work under fun.
But yet, in another way, subtle and true
this
frantic-paced waiting is changed and made new;
Priorities shifted, and new questions raised:
Just
what does it mean when the Lord of all Days
Comes to live 'mongst his people and take as
his own
their
sins to be healed, and their hearts as his throne?
While the motive behind all our busy-ness is
to
do just what is right; still the holiday's His.
All our gifts and our getting can never
compare
to
the gift of the child and the life that is there.
So I think of the song; may it fit to my
voice!
May
there be no temptation, no darkness, no choice
that would keep my own life from attesting it
well:
"I love you, my child, my Emmanuel."
