"The Lord God will give Him the throne of His father, David."
I wonder if those words echoed in her ears, as they rode into the city of David.
I wonder if her heart faltered, or if it beat strong with hope,
As You were born
And she placed You
In no royal crib.
I like to think that she was the sort of woman
Who could see Your throne already
Who was not blinded by the temporary manger.
The kind of woman
To whom dreams came easily
With the kind of breadth in her soul
That comes from expecting You.
I love that our story mimics Yours
And that we, too, have an inheritance
We don't yet see,
A Word from One greater than Gabriel.
And in this Bethlehem-waiting
(This smelly stable! This helpless infancy!)
We are filled and grow in hope
With the kind of breadth in the soul
That comes from expecting You.
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He's coming!
Merry Christmas, friends!
Xo.
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