Holidays - Seasons Greetings!

The Angel saw the Babe lifted from the manger and laid in the circle of the mother’s arm. Bowing low before the miracle of motherhood divine he brought the homage of Heaven to a wonder such as not Heaven or earth had yet seen. Then, rising, he drew a circle of the Light of the Throne about the little head where it lay pillowed on the mother’s breast.

Now he wrapped an aureole, a softer, gentler circle of the light about the head of the mother. The cry of the Babe was stilled, as the cries of all the children of earth are stilled in the warmth of mother love. Mother and Babe slept.

Then the light which had illumined the stable went out with the Angel, leaving only those circles of the Light which stood about the heads of mother and Child. The Angel gathered the choirs of attending spirits, who had come singing from the throne to adore at the manger, and led them back toward Heaven. With them they carried the cry of the Babe, to God.

Out over the earth they winged their way, all silently, their voices hushed in the cry of the Child.

Earth did not hear the cry, for earth slept. Men did not hear the cry, for men were deaf and knew not that the heart of God cried out in the cry of the child. The sea did not hear the cry as the myriads of angels swept above, for the sea was filled with its own voice.

But other worlds heard the cry as it passed along, and looked to earth, wondering that it could be heedless of the great thing that was come to pass in it.

The sun heard the cry, as the legions of angels passed out of the shadow of earth and flashed glistening through the illimitable waves of light. And other countless, pale suns, even to the far-scattered last ones of the universe, heard the cry, and stilled the music of their motion to listen.

The cry of the Child had caught the heart strings of creation, even as the reins that hold suns and worlds in their courses led back and were gathered into His clutching, tiny fingers.

The vast, unbroken silences of the unmeasured spaces heard now the first sound they had heard since the voice of the Creator had called them into being. The cry of the Child went through them, redeeming them from what had been their reproach of God’s forgetfulness.

To the outer confines of Heaven the cry now came, and the angels who there guarded the ultimate gates listened in hushed wonder, their own singing of the praises of God turned to a wondering, worshipping silence by the voice of the Child. So now forever those outer angels are listening, in memory of that cry of the Child that once came first to them, for the cry of the children of earth. And never a voice of prayer or pain goes up from a little one among us but is caught up by those angels who wait listening at the very first out-gates of Heaven.

Then through all Heaven went the cry that came, borne on the breath of angels’ wings, up from the Child.

It was the cry of the innocence of little children, and Heaven knew it as the most precious thing that earth had to give. It was the laughter and the frolic of babes, telling of the pure joy of being. It was of the things that babies smile about in their sleep.

It carried the unconscious worship of the little ones, a worship unalloyed. Every little white soul of earth cried up, in the voice of the Child, the gladness of living. Joy of dawn was in the cry, and the glory of the fresh morning. And every springing leaf that took the dew cried in the cry of the Child.

Then Heaven understood. This was Life itself that cried up from earth. For God is Life.

And the voice of the Child carried more than the cries from earth of those whom earth calls children. In that cry were the cries of great men’s hearts, men who, in their strength and in the push and battle of life, had never forgotten to be little ones in heart. These were men on whom the shell of selfishness had never grown. Men who woke laughing to the toil of the long day, who gave with one hand and never thought to take with the other, who loved God beyond reward, who loved men nor ever guessed that men were unworthy; the hearts of these Heaven heard in the voice of the Child. For these are like unto little children, and of such is Heaven.

Now the cry of the Child came on into the nearer courts of Heaven, where the great ones stand in the Light of the Throne. Here were the mighty warriors, and the angels of the council, and those whom God had made great in the practice of His own greatness. And here, among these great ones, was the cry of the Child best heard and best understood. For these, being greatest, were also littlest. And, too, only these knew in the fullest the greatness of the Child which was born on earth. These were they who, in the beginning of all things, had seen Heaven rent in twain at mention of His name. These knew. And falling down they worshipped in the cry of the Child, echoing the Narne that is above every other name.

Again the Angel lay prostrate before the Throne.

And the Light of the Throne beat down upon him. And he spoke not, nor raised himself from the foot of the Throne. But the cry of the Child which he had brought from earth stayed not with him.

The feeble, treble wail of the Babe that was born on earth went on up over the adoring Angel, on up above the steps of Light that were the steps of the Throne, on up, until it came to rest in the ineffable heart of God!

The cycle of the Promise was completed.

The Breath had come down from the Throne; and on the Breath, the Word.

Now the cry of the Child was come back to the Throne.

And the cry was the Breath, of the Word, made flesh.

Now the heart of God was kindled, as it had not warmed or delighted with any of the things made of His hands.

And He forgetteth not ever that it was the cry of a Child that came unto His heart, the echo of His Breath and His Word.

So that the way of the cry of a child, be it in laughing, or in play, in fullness or in hunger, in glee or in pain, is ever open, straight to His heart.

And once in every year, as the earth lives and as long as earth shall live, the cry of a Child goes up to the heart of God. With it go the cries of all the children of earth, for the way is open.

The cry of the innocence of children goes ‘up, and with it goes the word that that innocence is protected and loved and cherished of men on earth. So God is gladdened in His heart, in that He hath made man.

And baby laughter, as meaningless and yet as mysterious as the voices of breeze and wave, goes up to God. And He understands, for the things at which babies laugh are known to Him.

And the shouts of children’s glee go up to Him from homes where love reigns, where the whole world is set at naught for the twining of baby fingers, where mothers work their miracles of love and patience, where strong men rest and find again their strength. These God loves these shouts of romping, happy children. For He knows that those whom these bind together not all the men of earth can put asunder. And upon this He has built His world.

Even the tired sighs of full little stomachs, even these go up to God in Heaven-and these be not despised. For God hath planted the earth with fullness for these.

Others there be, little ones, who shout not aloud in play or do not fall sleepy with full stomachs. And for these God has made Christmas and has put into the hearts of men and women the passion that is the holiest and the godliest one which stirs their breasts, the passion for gladdening the hearts of the forgotten little ones of earth.

And for the cries of little ones so gladdened, God does not wait for them to come up to Him, but listens, leaning down from His Throne, and whispers to the heart of you and me to go search out these; that not one voice of gladness of the children of earth be missing from the cry of the Child that goeth up to the Throne.