“Come,” they told me, “a newborn King to see.”
The journey was long, but we were strong.
“Our finest gifts we bring… to lay before the King.”
Blankets and wool against the cool.
“So to honor him… when we come.”
Kneel down, creaking sounds; bow low, down we go.
My father and the other shepherds knelt beside the manger in awe, but I stood back. I had come to see a king, and here was a child wrapped in dirty rags and laid in a feeding trough. I had come to see a palace, and here was a drafty stable shed. I had come to honor him, but he didn’t even look at me. The baby’s eyes were closed and he slept silently.
But then I remembered what the angels said, and a thrill of fear pierced me again at the thought of their thundering voices and blindingly bright faces, faces that had seen God Himself and yet deigned to appear to us, the lowest of…
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