Lo, how a rose e’er blooming from
tender stem hath sprung,
Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung…
O Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air,
Dispel with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere…
Of Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung…
O Flower, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air,
Dispel with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere…
from
Es Ist Ein Ros’ Entsprungen, 15th century German hymn,
translated by Theodore Baker
translated by Theodore Baker
How do we lay
hold of the beauty of Emmanuel?
How do we rise
above and see beyond the solidity of matter, the dynamism of energy, the logic
of reason, the insight of intuition, the sorrow of the soul, the occupation
of our intent? Do we embrace our need, our doubt, our trust, our scope… our
nativity all in a moment?
Flush with the
Word and His word, do we grip confessions like polished banisters that
segregate mineral cathedrals into naves and vaults, locked expressions of
faith: façade and genuflection? Or do we let go the exhaustion of anxiety
from the pursuit of our most earnest desires and feel it slide from our
shoulders onto the floor like winter air pouring down from clerestory
skylights?
We look up and
feel it caress our head and chill our feet until we are baptized afresh, as
though suddenly kneeling in a soft, bracing snowfall of joy and light, our ears
and face aglow like the rose, the heat of our blood rising to meet our spirit.
And there in our nativity, a rosy bloom of love and hope radiates from the
manger, His tiny translucent hand reaches out, beautiful in form, and we cannot
do else but grasp it in our own. Then a holy pain from His palm to ours ascends
within us, His blood rising to meet His Spirit in our very being.
Oh come, oh
come, Emmanuel… until the Son of God appears.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Rejoice! Rejoice!
