The Shepherd’s Wife
He’s here again—
it must be thirty lambings since
last I saw Him—
a mewling, just-arrived babe
folded in the protection of His mother’s arms—
the night my husband urged me,
though nearing my own confinement,
to come and see.
Angels, he said as we hurried
beneath the stars, came
with wondrous news of a king newly-born,
the Son of God,
our Messiah.
My husband had gone, had seen
and felt His presence.
I, too, should see this Holy Child.
A king?
The Son of God?
Yes, I felt it.
Our Saviour?
He whimpered in the night breeze—
Let Him grow up, first.
His mother smiled as her eyes rose
from my almost-son, wrapped against the night.
“He may be a king,” I thought,
“but we are alike, you and I—
wishing our sons were
safely abed.
When I bring forth my shepherd-son
I will be as happy as you.”
***
Thirty years, or more.
We wondered,
in those few idle moments
daily cares and griefs spared to us,
what had become of Him.
We argued, when we had strength,
if this King was worth it.
Thirty years of pain and grief—
for what?
The man walking the dusty roads,
dusty followers thronging?
Where is the King?—our Saviour?
Where was He—if I could get close, I would ask—
Where was He when my son died?
I had but a while to think on Him
after that night.
I gave birth to my son, my wondrous child,
who filled my thoughts, my days—
until the day
my son, my beloved, my firstborn,
was killed for Him.
Herod’s troops came,
murder in their hearts
murder dripping from their swords
murder thrust through our village
killing my son, my not-quite-two-years-with-us son,
just in case—
—just in case he was Him!
Where was his Saviour?
If I see Him again
I will ask.
My husband bowed to grief,
guarded his wife and his sheep more tenderly,
and accepted.
“When He is grown, it will be worth it.”
But my heart fought until exhausted, with accepting.
I wasn’t even allowed Abraham’s lot,
who, at least, was told by God to give up his son
and then, in obedience was spared.
My child was torn from me
because God’s Child—
the man who walks where my child once played—
was born.
Acceptance?
I tried.
***
Another lambing come and gone.
I hear He’s going to Jerusalem for Passover.
My husband is eager to see the Promise again,
I go because I must ask—
“Why did You come? Where were You?”
Maybe then I can accept.
I saw Him again yesterday.
Under arrest, the crowd said.
“No!” cried my husband, “Not our Messiah!”
“No,” I whispered.
“He can’t answer me,
if He must answer to them.”
I caught and held His eyes—
how was it He already knew?
Thirty years of pain tore from my throat—
“You claim You do not want a sacrifice,
but a broken heart, a contrite spirit—
yet my son was sacrificed!
My heart broke
when You were but a child
and they killed him in hopes he was You—
Where were You when my son died in Your stead?”
I have no spirit left,
contrite or not.
But they dragged Him past
and I could not follow.
***
Today I saw Him for the last time.
I stood beneath His cross
and wondered which of us was in greater pain?
Once more, our eyes met and I saw
He was tiring, approaching the end.
But He couldn’t leave, not without answering me!
Again, He knew, willed His eyes to focus.
I drew closer to His weakening ears
but stopped—
unable, unwilling, to move past the woman
crumpled in grief
(we are alike, you and I).
“Why?” I cried.
“You caused my son to be slain—
now You kill hers.
You say You came to save.
But my son—my sinless child—was killed.
You say You give Your life for us.
But my son gave his life for You!
Do You now pay that debt?”
His eyes clouded with death—my death.
My heart pierced
at the moment they pierced His—then
I saw Him for the first time.
It was my debt He paid,
my soul He held.
And I learned
a heart could heal
while breaking.
