A simple image, softly drawn and colored. No stars, no manger scene, no busy city
shopping, no kings or penguins or Santas, neither deer nor angels flying,
nor carolers singing, no light-strung trees, no winter landscape in this or any other land.
Yet nothing seems to speak of Christmas more.
Nestled at the great head of a sleeping lion, a sleep so deep you know he’s left
all fear behind,
lies a little lamb, head up, alert, watching me
to let me know
she is protecting him
so he can rest safely.
She loves to do this, for she loves him, and he needs her, and it is her job.
She has no weapons, no claws, no cunning instinct. She watches in the
power of her being.
The power of gentleness,
The power of grace,
The power of knowing,
The power of meekness, intent on following the Shepherd’s great heart,
and none other.
The power of peace.
The power of God’s cosmic love.
And all the mighty armies of all the mighty nations and all the mighty corporations shall finally collapse in sweet sleep
the power of a people’s God-impelled rights of love to reign,
as shown by him who is Christmas,
“The meek … shall inherit the earth.”*
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