His was an epic submission to a radical promise. A cosmic exchange: the pleasures of paradise for life as a humble earth dweller. Glory for Golgotha. Life for lives.
Eternity’s Son, He was divinely conceived and prophetically birthed.
What child is this who, laid to rest,
on Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
while shepherds watch are keeping?*
Announced by angelic flash mob was that Child. The Child. Our Child. Heaven’s merciful endowment, brought into real-time through a scandalous duo. Obedient outcasts, forced to hold quarters with beasts in a stable.
Why lies he in such mean estate
where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christians, fear, for sinners here
the silent Word is pleading.*
Mary’s lap nestled the infinite, incomparable Word. Salvation in infant form. Our righteous rescue. Our holy advocate. His glad desire was to deliver an explosive, sufficient, ever-fresh but unrepeatable expression of selfless love.
So bring him incense, gold, and myrrh,
come, peasant, king, to own him;
the King of kings salvation brings,
let loving hearts enthrone him.*
This, this is Christ the King,
whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
haste, haste to bring him laud,
the babe, the son of Mary.*
Babe. Then boy. Then man. But always King.
What Child is this?
Jesus. The God-Man baby of Christmas who humbled himself to be our humiliation. Who experienced humanity’s worst so that we might taste glory. Who set aside everything to make something of our nothing. Our Messiah.
May we never cease to laud His immeasurable worth.
*Lyrics from the hymn, “What Child is This?”