Words of The Lamb magazine

by Yannick Imbert

Take my hand, let’s cross the threshold!
On the long road we’ve seen markers
Leading to where hist’ry unfolds.
Now then: we have left our household,
And the air is getting darker;
Take my hand, let’s cross the threshold.
We have walked the path we were told,
Moving on where it is stranger.
Now come to where hist’ry unfolds
Behind us, all is growing cold
With fear, despair, hate, and anger;
Take my hand, let’s cross the threshold.
We don’t have any incense, gold
Or even myrrh. But no matter:
Enter to where hist’ry unfolds;
Let’s leave the cold night, and behold
The babe sleeping in the manger.
Take my hand, let’s cross the threshold!