When she gazed into his tiny face and sang the lullabies of her people, could she grasp the weight of the name “Savior”?
Did she know that the fragile hands, curling around her finger in trust, would one day bear nails for a world that did not yet understand?
As his laughter filled their humble home, did she sense the shadow of agony that would one day consume him in a garden, beneath the weight of the world’s sin?
When his innocent tears fell, as children’s often do, did she glimpse the sorrow of a weeping Savior at a friend’s tomb?
When she rocked him to sleep, his lashes resting against his soft cheeks, could she imagine the anguish of watching his eyes close in death?
As she wrapped his tiny form in swaddling cloths, did her heart stir with the faintest whisper of a future day—
when she would wrap his lifeless body in grave clothes, laying him in a borrowed tomb?
And yet, when his morning smiles woke her with joy, could she ever fathom the radiant dawn of resurrection—a morning that would shatter death and flood the world with hope?
We, who know the fullness of the story, still struggle to comprehend the depths of that sacred word: “Savior.”
But Mary—did she understand, when it was told of a sword piercing her soul?
When she stood at the foot of the cross, her son suspended between heaven and earth,
did the unthinkable truth rush in with piercing clarity?
This is what “Savior” meant.
This is why he came.
And oh, what a Savior.
A King who bore our shame, a Lamb who carried our grief, A Redeemer who gave his life so that we might live.
Behold the Savior:
The one who was promised.
The one who fulfilled.
The one who rose.
Oh, what a Savior.
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