My Songs.

Come with me to census city

see the child who doesn’t count,

where the refugees are rolling in.

Come with me to find a corner

just a foothold on the earth

- but enough for Christmas to begin.

 

It’s dark. It’s cold.

She’s young but feels so old,

and every step is a reminder

that she’s out here on her own.

If she cries who cares?

She’s lonely and she’s scared,

but no one wants to know you

when you’re far away from home.

 

It’s late. Stars shine.

She’s aching all the time,

and every cry is a reminder

that she cradles hope tonight.

If he cries lift him up

‘til he drains the bitter cup:

an outcast in a manger

but his mother holds him tight.

 

Come with me to census city

see the child who doesn’t count,

where the refugees are rolling in.

Come with me to find a corner

just a foothold on the earth

- but enough for Christmas to begin.

 

He’s old but proud,

unbeaten and unbowed,

but every day is a reminder

of the burden he has borne.

He finds the place,

finds heaven’s birthing space:

as, carpenter and pilgrim,

he builds the Son of God a home.

 

Come with me to census city

see the child who doesn’t count,

where the refugees are rolling in.

Come with me to find a corner

just a foothold on the earth

- but enough for Christmas to begin.

 

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