For the last ten years or so, I’ve been increasingly aware of the romance of the Christmas story. I think every female can relate to the image of domestic bliss held in every Christmas creche. The radiant mother and her precious child, the pair admired and brought gifts from far and wide.
The joy of holding your baby while others gather around to marvel at this new life is something that every one deserves to have at least once in a lifetime.
Since many experts agree that is probably somewhat or entirely apocryphal, I sometimes fancy that it was women who told the story first, only to be picked up later by the likes of Luke and Matthew.
A poor woman gives birth to her child.
Away in a manger, no crib for a bed
She has no crib for him, no toys, not even a onesie that says “iPood”.
This, this is Christ the King, whom shepherd guard and angels sing
But in her eyes, he is prince among men.
Oh come, let us adore him.
Admirers travel from afar to gaze at her baby and worship him, which is no less than his due.
our finest gifts we bring, parumpapumpum
They bring gifts which are wonderful, but impractical. Gold instead of a crib, Frankincense instead of recieving blankets.
Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume breathes of life of gathering gloom
It’s the thought that counts.
A boy beats on a drum to amuse the baby.
Then He smiled at me, parumpapumpum
The baby has gas and everyone chuckles delightedly.
What child is this who laid to rest on Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Comfortable in his mother’s arms, the baby does not know that he lacks a crib, or that he is in possession of myrrh.
The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes. But little lord Jesus no crying he makes.
This is definitely a woman’s fantasy.
I am always grateful for my baby but I feel a special gratitude this Christmas, as I hold my own blessed child and think of another.
The Babe, the son of Mary.
To all mothers everywhere, and their babies wherever they may be, and their worshippers, I wish the warmest and most loving Christmas.