I’ve stood on a street corner, suitcase in hand,
longing for a clean, safe place to rest my weary head,
But bands of unknown terror didn’t
sieze me nor the birth of a miracle child
I’ve settled for the night on a hard
fold-out cot in a sterile room filled with
But at least I had sheets and a blanket, not
dirty straw with the earthy smell of animals
I’ve known despair as I’ve watched every
twitch of the one I love as he battled the pain.
But doctors counseled and guarded and watched
not donkeys and cows with only Joseph to
I’ve felt desperate to know the outcome of trouble
How will it all end; does hope remain?
out his names—Jesus. Immanuel.
Her whisper, “God with us!”
Nothing I’ve ever experienced compares to what Mary must have endured as she gave birth to the Savior of the world in a smelly stable. (tweet this)
But the power of calling out his names remains.
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