A young, Hebrew lass,
Soon to be wed,
Woke up all aghast,
Stark, in her bed.
Fear not, came a voice,
There is no harm.
There is no alarm.
Thou art with child,
A Holy Seed,
An infant most mild.
Soon thou wilt breed.
Poor Joseph will fret.
We are with him;
His mind will be set.
This is no whim.
Ye both shall proceed
To Beethlehem.
By then, thy now-seed
Shall comfort them:
Shall three gifts bring
To all a Holy Feast
For the New King.
Ye three shall escape
A bloody plot –
One day, thy good son
Wilt set about
To this cruel world stun,
There is no doubt.
With love he shall trade
All enemies-made,
For placid cows.
But, all will not go
Smoothly for him.
Mankind is quite slow
Its sins to trim.
He wilt, in the end,
Have made a dent;
A light there within
Shone through the tent.
Thou, too, wilt suffer,
Fail to forfend;
There'll be no buffer
Up to the end --
When in thy suff'ring,
With thy heart flutt'ring
At thy great loss,
Thou shalt look upward,
At His sad face,
With a finger forward,
In this disgrace:
"I told thee, times ten,
"I – no other,
"To always listen
"To thy Jewish mother!"
