To say that His birth was opposed is to touch the limits of mortal language. The mighty one has been hated since the pride of the bright one led many away. Your world war comes close, but even then, believe me, you have no idea.
We sang that night as we had never sung before. Those shepherds believed they were the primary audience. True, they were important — the Mighty One has always favored the lowly. But there was much going on that night. The other reason we sang in the fields was to hallow the ground where Rachel would weep over her sons. There the graves would be dug, the graves for the little boys of Bethlehem.
Herod’s rage soon stripped dozens of firstborns from the breasts of their mothers. Those so fresh from heaven, so quickly silenced. Slaughtered like animals. So much blood.
The town had no room for Mary, and Herod’s heart had no room for another king. He would not share his glory.
Although we do not exist in time, there are moments when the affairs of earth are hard to endure. Even Angels desire vengeance.
“Vengeance is Mine,” declared the Mighty One. “Justice is coming. I need you to sing.”
And so we sang. What the shepherds heard as an anthem the innocents would hear as a lullaby. We sang as we had never sang before. A song to bring Him safely into the world, a song to guide them safely from it, and a song to help Mary endure it:
Glory to God in the heavenly heights,
Fly, fly to the breast of the Father,
This wrong will be righted,
Jesus is here,
Peace to all men and women on earth
who please Him.
Rest, rest in the arms of the Father,
His fury remembers,
His love holds you dear.
Many do not sing of this horror at Christmas. That is understandable; it was an unspeakable deed. But I remind you that His birth was opposed. You have no idea.
(This version of the Christmas Story has been adapted from Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas by John Blasé)
We sang that night as we had never sung before. Those shepherds believed they were the primary audience. True, they were important — the Mighty One has always favored the lowly. But there was much going on that night. The other reason we sang in the fields was to hallow the ground where Rachel would weep over her sons. There the graves would be dug, the graves for the little boys of Bethlehem.
Herod’s rage soon stripped dozens of firstborns from the breasts of their mothers. Those so fresh from heaven, so quickly silenced. Slaughtered like animals. So much blood.
The town had no room for Mary, and Herod’s heart had no room for another king. He would not share his glory.
Although we do not exist in time, there are moments when the affairs of earth are hard to endure. Even Angels desire vengeance.
“Vengeance is Mine,” declared the Mighty One. “Justice is coming. I need you to sing.”
And so we sang. What the shepherds heard as an anthem the innocents would hear as a lullaby. We sang as we had never sang before. A song to bring Him safely into the world, a song to guide them safely from it, and a song to help Mary endure it:
Glory to God in the heavenly heights,
Fly, fly to the breast of the Father,
This wrong will be righted,
Jesus is here,
Peace to all men and women on earth
who please Him.
Rest, rest in the arms of the Father,
His fury remembers,
His love holds you dear.
Many do not sing of this horror at Christmas. That is understandable; it was an unspeakable deed. But I remind you that His birth was opposed. You have no idea.
(This version of the Christmas Story has been adapted from Touching Wonder: Recapturing the Awe of Christmas by John Blasé)
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