The Cross of Bethlehem

Shrouded in mist, behold the scene:
The Tale-teller is entering—
The man we name Immannuel,
Who didn’t blink when Satan fell.
But sweeter motives sent him here,
Like starlight to our atmosphere,
To take back what that serpent took.
He spurned man’s fig leaf and forsook
Immortal crowns a babe to be—
Clothed only with humility.
Becoming flesh he left heaven
And saw the cross at Bethlehem.
He lived as dead. He took no thought
For rights or power though being God.
Misunderstood, betrayed, tortured,
God gave no curse—nay, spoke no word—
Then ending what birth had begun,
Was hung shame, and hid the sun.
Naked he came; naked returned.
By blood his own perfection learned,
He offered up humanity—
Heard no reply. Surrend’ring, he
Went lower still, to deepest earth,
And changed the grave from dread to mirth.
Now—thought of thoughts—sin’s blindness cured,
Our man of sorrows has secured
The highest throne, the noblest name,
The purest bride for which he came,
And crowning all rewards of grace,
The smile upon his Father’s face.

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