God, oh infant God. Heaven's fairest child, sleep well.
Enjoy the silence of the crib, for the noise of confusion rumbles in your
Savor the sweet safety of my arms, for a day is soon coming,
when I cannot protect you.
Rest well, tiny hands
For though you belong to the King, you will touch no satin, own no gold,
you will grasp no pen, guide no brush.
No, your tiny hands are reserved for works more precious.
To touch a leper's open wound, to wipe a widow's weary tear,
to claw the ground of Gethsemane.
Sleep deeply tiny eyes, sleep while you can.
For soon the blurriness will clear, and you will
see the mess
we have made of your world.
You will see our nakedness, for we cannot hide,
You will see our selfishness,for
we cannot give,
you will see our pain, for we cannot heal.
Lay still tiny mouth, lay still, mouth from which eternity will
Tiny tongue that will soon summon the dead, that will define grace,
that will silence our foolishness.
And tiny feet, cupped in the palm of my hand, rest.
For many difficult steps lie ahead for you.
Do you taste the dust of the trails you will travel?
Do you feel the cold sea water upon which you will walk?
Do you wrench at the invasion of the nails you will bear?
Do you fear the deep descent, down the spiral staircase,
into Satan's domain?
Rest, tiny feet. Rest today, so that tomorrow you might walk with power.
Rest. For millions will follow in your steps.
-excerpt from Max Lucado