Who is this Herod in my heart
That seeks to kill the child?
It is the one who measures life
Till all is weighed and filed;
Who only thinks in terms of power,
Of wealth or of success;
Who worships all the outer things
That bring us untold stress.
Our inner life is like a child
Awaiting to be born,
A child who threatens Herod’s power
With strength that tyrants scorn.
To choose the way of inner growth
Brings all the pangs of birth,
Yet pain can open doors to change,
The change that saves the Earth.
O Christ, the babe, devoid of wealth,
Deprived of outer power,
Help us locate that birthing space
In which our Spirits flower,
For in our deepest silent world
There lies a sacred way
To all that frees our inner child
And lets its spirit play.
Text © William Livingstone Wallace. Arrangement © Barry Brinson.
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