25 Dec 2006

The hope rested somehow, the hope of all creatures that ever had been, and were, and were ever to be, on one small, huddled form: what small hands where rested the fate of the world. And this would be the only one who would keep it all, the pure innocence of birth, all the way to his dying day, that all his values would be of infinite worth, therefore, tested and proven true. But that was all yet to be, and one could only wonder what rested behind those little eyes, of which they were said did not shed any tear that night, nor did his lips utter any cry: what mysterious love could be behind such a simple face. That mighty God was born so tiny a figure, to be as we were, except that here would not fall short of the glory. Christmas: the hope of it we can still feel, when we believed there were none who could not be saved; not a soul overlooked; God with us, forevermore.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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