Come, Christmas Child

advent lullaby

Gentle, lowly, meek, and mild,
softly came the Christmas child.

Softly like a seed dropped down
to people waiting for a crown.

Softly as a star ablaze
shrinks the darkness of night's gaze.

Soft as smiles hiding pain—
soft as newborn skin unstained.

He'll grow into a man of might
who can pray when sleep stalks night. 

He will wrestle waves and sin.
In manhood he'll fight death and win.

In losing life, he'll save us all.
Oh, Christmas child, reverse the fall.

Gentle, lowly, meek, and mild,
my victor, the Christmas child.

Adoration of the Shepherds by Caravaggio (1609)

Composition Notes

Writing this felt like remembering rather than inventing.

Yesterday I was making French toast out of stale sourdough before church when I heard, “Gentle, lowly, meek and mild, softly came the Christmas child.” I thought it was an old Christmas carol running through my brain and tried out a few tunes to see if I could remember the rest of it.

I did a quick search using that great research tool known as Google and can’t find the words anywhere, so I jotted them down before our church service. I am still not entirely certain if I wrote this or remembered it. If you know where these words are from, please let me know in the comments. Perhaps my brain wrote it while I was sleeping and then replayed it for me when awake, which is why it sounds so familiar. It has a medieval feel to it. I don’t usually think of Jesus as the Christmas child: when I pray to him, I am remembering his resurrection power at work in our lives and the intercession he pleads for us at the right hand of the Father. There is something piercingly tender about remembering his helpless form which he willingly took on for us.

Writing this became a communal act as I texted various iterations of lines to Lauren Alison last night and we chose the best ones for the final lullaby together. We were reflecting on how understanding God’s heart for us as his children has a profound effect on our writing.

I have been thinking lately about how much delight I take in my children, not in spite of, but because of the idiosyncracies of learning and being mid-process. I love their little notes and drawings, and the faltering first attempts—the misspellings and inconsistencies—only endear the sentiment. These sensations of delight we feel as parents or aunts and uncles or grandparents reflect a tiny portion of our Lord’s heart toward us. If my youngest came to me and said, “I’m going to stop drawing pictures of us with oversized eyes and hearts all over the page because all my brothers did the same thing when they were in kindergarten, and now they can do it better,” I would assure him that he is the only one who can give me these love notes that are dear because they are from his hand. There is no substitute for any one person. And so it is with you.

If you have stories or songs or poems bubbling up inside you this Advent season, write them down and offer them to our Father. He delights in your words. He delights in the outpouring of your heart. He wants to hear from you. Your fingerprints and your irises are proof that your thoughts are irreplaceable to him. The amount of interest he has in you is lavish and prodigal and excessive. It makes me uncomfortable at times. I haven’t done anything impressive, and that’s exactly the point. He has clothed me in a love so specific and distinct that it makes me resplendent. Let him wrap that robe around you again. Let it settle on your shoulders and fill you with the comfort and warmth and love you are longing for.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Love,

Abigail