Mary's Prayer

May you remember this Christmas the Savior who came to bring you life!

Mary's Prayer

by Max Lucado

God. O infant-God. Heaven's fairest child. Conceived by the union of divine
grace with our disgrace. Sleep well.

Sleep well. Bask in the coolness of this night bright with diamonds. Sleep
well, for the heat of anger simmers nearby. Enjoy the silence of the crib,
for the noise of confusion rumbles in your future. Savor the sweet safety of
my arms, for a day is soon coming when I cannot protect you.

Rest well, tiny hands. For though you belong to a king, you will touch no
satin, own no gold. You will grasp no pen, guide no brush. No, your tiny
hands are reserved for works more precious: to touch a leper's open wound, to
wipe a widow's weary tear, to claw the ground of Gethsemane.

Your hands, so tiny, so tender, so white--clutched tonight in an infant's
fist. They aren't destined to hold a scepter nor wave from a palace balcony.
They are reserved instead for a Roman spike that will staple them to a Roman cross.

Sleep deeply, tiny eyes. Sleep while you can. For soon the blurriness will
clear and you will see the mess we have made of your world. You will see our
nakedness, for we cannot hide. You will see our selfishness, for we cannot
give. You will see our pain, for we cannot heal. O eyes that will see hell's
darkest pit and witness her ugly prince...sleep, please sleep; sleep while you can.

And tiny feet cupped in the palm of my hand, rest. For many difficult steps
lie ahead for you. Do you taste the dust of the trails you will travel? Do
you feel the cold sea water upon which you will walk? Do you wrench at the
invasion of the nail you will bear? Do you fear the steep descent down the
spiral staircase into Satan's domain? Rest, tiny feet. Rest today so that
tomorrow you might walk with power. Rest. For millions will follow in your steps.

And little heart...holy heart...pumping the blood of life through the
universe: How many times will we break you? You'll be torn by the thorns of
our accusations. You'll be ravaged by the cancer of our sin. You'll be
crushed under the weight of your own sorrow. And you'll be pierced by the
spear of our rejection.

Yet in that piercing, in that ultimate ripping of muscle and membrane, in that
final rush of blood and water, you will find rest. Your hands will be freed,
your eyes will see justice, your lips will smile, and your feet will carry you home.

And there you'll rest again--this time in the embrace of your Father.