Born to a sinful man who tried to teach me faith,
instead I inherited his constant need for grace.
Like countless others born on that day.
Like countless others born the same way.
My life was serving the god of my gut:
Ignored the Love self-worship cut.
Vain-hoping to avoid the reaper,
but I’m a weak man – my gut, weaker.
The god of my gut cannot turn the Earth,
it won’t stop my death, never caused my birth.
Shortly, my flesh lays in the ground.
In myself, no hope will be found.
But there is a Son different than I,
begotten of the Holy Father on high.
Unlike any other man come to Earth.
Unlike any event was the virgin birth.
This Son served the only Master that matters:
One with God, a woven-bond never tattered.
Lowered in a manger, at mouths of stock –
helpless babe, yet the world’s Founding Rock.
He still held them in place, put breath in us,
while he lowered himself to crawl in the dust.
Humbly, his flesh laid in the ground.
But in the tomb he can’t be found.
Won’t we see our need for this Savior?
Forget our foolish hopes in labor?
For I cannot turn from my gut on my own
but must trust in Christ by faith alone,
that his death and raising paid my debts.
In his promise to claim me, I find rest.
Not the season of giving, but one gift:
The birth of Christ, who lowered to lift
his people to God despite our sins,
a strength I’d never find within