My God, my God, how can it be,
You sent Your Son to die for me?
Virgin chosen like no other
Purest vessel for your mother.
The feeding trough a resting place,
For one brought forth from Full of Grace.
A fitting place to lay the head
Of One who came to be our Bread.
Can it be, it’s just a myth,
That children find amusement with?
A holiday that’s set aside
For toys and tots and pumpkin pies?
For some it may be such a time
For decorating trees of pine.
For wreaths of holly, green and bright,
For colored bulbs that light the night.
But now I ask: Before He came,
What was it like to live in shame,
Where Paradise to sin was lost,
And no one here could pay the cost?
To look upon our history,
And see our lives eternally.
Apart from Him, and far away,
Because for sin we could not pay.
I see it now with clarity
There’s quite a stark disparity
From what is offered every time
In simple gifts of bread and wine.
Emmanuel is present here
To drive away our every fear.
And when we look upon the creche
We see our God who took on flesh.
So let us not a moment waste,
And like the shepherds, go in haste
And never let the chance go past
To meet with Him at Holy Mass.