A guiding star for travelers,
was herald of his birth
the shepherds quaked within their fields
to hear the angels’ mirth,
yet all of them in time did find
a hidden family,
and in the hearts of those,
I deem,
was greatest mystery
How was he born,
who birthed the world;
in poverty or wealth?
how could he die,
who slew all death,
and gave the sick their health?
We see the way,
marked out by him,
who blazed the only trail,
where fullness of the victory
is found when we still fail
For can we guess
the worth of lives
lived short upon the Earth?
if measured by the
deeds we’ve done,
then what could be their worth?
Rule an empire?
it shall fade,
to dust or into sand,
like ancient Babel’s monument,
what’s left of it to stand?
For fame and fortunes
come and go,
for what then shall we strive?
what good is health or family,
if none be left alive?
But fear not
and have courage, friend,
the small becomes the great,
though small be deeds
done day to day,
yet great shall be their weight
For though all things
shall pass away,
yet still, we all shall rise,
and quiet lives
lived in his love
will win the only prize
for is there any on the Earth,
who did a deed that’s great?
even the Lord himself did seem,
to share our sorry fate
For what befell,
the Lord of all
who hung upon the tree?
it seemed that all was lost for him
when he saved you and me!
Though Far and wide
his fame has grown,
and so, we now forget,
his torturous death
Did not at first
Appear to make us blessed
And yet we see the
years roll by,
after stone was rolled away,
the empty tomb,
has filled our hearts
and gives a place to stay
For small we are
and shall remain,
what good then are our lives?
what meaning,
and what legacy
are found in our short times?
There is the single privilege
to walk this world with him,
in him to do the daily works,
in him be cleansed of sin.
For in him who
was born so poor, and died almost alone,
we find homes for our sufferings,
a hope that we may own
for in him, and within his love,
a small life is not small,
the simple stands in dignity,
the poor in richest hall,
the fruitless striving bears much fruit,
the barren life does bloom,
the child takes the battlefield,
from the sickbed in her room.
for little flowers we may be,
but in him roots go deep,
in him retrieve your dignity,
and then you shall not weep
For the author of our very lives,
let his own youth be forgot,
except his death and ministry,
much is remembered not.
if He himself who knows all things,
thus, deigned to be unknown,
why then O! Dear Mortal why?
do you persist to groan?
What then is it to you my friend,
if your life is forgot?
if every task shall fruitless be,
before you’re left to rot?
for if you’ve lived
the life you’ve lived,
and lived it in his sight,
the dark of thy obscurity,
shall be as endless light.
And so, the call
that calls to you must
call you home as well,
unto the home in Bethlehem,
In which his Family dwells,
So, see the glorious hidden lives
which they lived with our Lord
your life like theirs
shall shine above
if through it, he’s adored!