Before the angels broke their silence,
Before the star began to shine,
Before the virgin's womb held heaven,
Before God crossed that boundary line—
We waited in the darkness, heavy,
With prophets' voices growing dim,
Four hundred years of heaven's quiet,
No burning bush, no seraphim.
The powerful still crushed the powerless,
The rich still built their walls up high,
The sick still died without their healing,
And mothers taught their sons to cry
In whispers, soft, behind closed doors,
"Remember child, don't lift your head,
Keep low, keep quiet, keep on moving,
Or you'll be counted with the dead."
We worked the fields that weren't our own,
We bent beneath the empire's heel,
We wondered if the God of Abraham
Could see us, hear us, know our ordeal.
The priests still offered up their sacrifices,
The scrolls still told of days gone by,
When God would part the raging waters,
When manna fell from heaven's sky.
But where was God in Roman occupation?
Where was God in daily bread denied?
Where was God when children hungered?
Where was God when hope had died?
And then—
Oh, then—
A teenage girl said yes to scandal,
A carpenter chose love over law,
A baby cried in borrowed shelter,
And shepherds fell in holy awe.
God didn't send another message,
God didn't write across the sky,
God put on flesh and bone and heartbeat,
God chose to bleed, and God chose to cry.
Emmanuel—the end of distance,
Emmanuel—the end of "someday soon,"
God-with-us in the midnight darkness,
God-with-us beneath the threatening moon.
Before Emmanuel, we were waiting,
But after Him, we're waiting still—
Not for God to finally show up,
But for us to know He always will.