Oh night divine

Her heart swelled with a love so pure it seemed uncontainable as she cradled her firstborn son against her chest.

Jesus.

The Savior.

Emmanuel.

God with us.

Once forbidden from even approaching the Holy Place, now the Holy of Holies lay nestled in her arms, gazing up at her with innocent eyes. The heartbeat of heaven beat in harmony with hers as they settled into the stillness of the stable.

How could she have known?

That one day, this tiny heart—so perfectly in rhythm with hers—would cease, for her?

That the weight of her breaking heart would be felt in his, as he surrendered to death, for her?

She couldn’t have fathomed the agony ahead, the pain he would bear. Yet all of it—every breath, every step—was for her. For us.

That night, as she beheld his face—the face of the Holy One—the weary world rejoiced. The stable, humble and unworthy, became a throne room. Heaven’s light had pierced the darkness.

And though her heart would one day shatter as his stopped, she chose to treasure the gift before her. She memorized the curve of his cheeks, the softness of his hands, the depth in his eyes.

She loved him.

She raised him.

And she worshiped him.

Oh, night divine—

The night when heaven came down,

The night when love was born.