He who made his mother is born of his mother. He who made all flesh is born of flesh. The bird that built the nest is hatched therein. Maker of the sun, under the sun; molder of the earth, on this earth; ineffably wise, a little infant; filling the world, lying in a manger; ruling the stars, suckling a breast; the mirth of heaven weeps; God becomes man; Creator, a creature. Rich becomes poor; Divinity, incarnate; Majesty, subjugated; Liberty, captive; Eternity, time; Master, a servant; Truth, accused; Judge, judged; Justice, condemned; Lord scourged; Power, bound with ropes; King, crowned with thorns; Salvation wounded; Life, dead. And thought we shall live on through eternity, eternity will not be long enough for us to understand the mystery of that Child Who was a Father and of the mother who was a child.
God is love. I don’t say the heart doesn’t feel a taste of it, but what a taste. The smallest glass of love mixed with a pint pot of ditch-water. We wouldn’t recognize that love. It might even look like hate. It would be enough to scare us - God’s love. It set fire to a bush in the desert, didn’t it, and smashed open graves and set the dead walking in the dark. Oh a man like me would run a mile to get away if he felt that love around.