The black night of this world's wake
Yields no echo past the empty clack
Of rod and staff on the parched hills
As shepherds watched their flocks.

Little solace in the dull passing of the day
Where promises are sparse in substance
And predators stalk the field's edge
Scouting the lean with a hungry look.

The news of birth and death sounds
Like a self-canceling reality to mortal ears,
But, with lingering hope that the priest's words
Are true, they shepherd on in the dark.

Then glory penetrates the gloom,
And the radiance of heaven obscures the night
With news that remedies the fright
Of such a sin-exposing glow.

The choral society of another realm
Sings praise, praise, praise, and glory
Be to God, who's taking on bleak night—
Forsaken to win us a place in the choir.

O shepherds, dirty your robes with kneeling
In your mother the dust for such a gift.

Ordained Servant Online, December 2010