As I ran through the parts to this year’s carol yesterday afternoon, I realized that I have now been composing an annual carol for nearly 20 years. This year, I returned to three-part women’s music, the form I chose for my first carol in 1998. Back then, I had a different last name, and I had not yet discovered music transcription software. A lot of things have changed in 20 years, but my love for this season hasn’t. I still celebrate the god-man whose message of radical love for the stranger and the poor seems especially relevant in 2017.
In the olden days, we had to write music out by hand. |
I took a different approach when I considered what the lost voices of women would have said to the baby Jesus and his mother. The religious historian Karen Armstrong, in her Short History of Myth, notes that humans need stories to tell us how to conduct our lives. Our current story of Christmas, with its relentless commercialism, is one that Christ—born in a stable, the child of refugees—would not recognize. The man who ostensibly leads our country, elected by self-proclaimed “Christians,” is the antithesis of everything that Christ stood for.
In my version of the Three Wise Women myth, the women know that men will kill their god. To resurrect Christ in 2017, we have to resurrect the stories that mattered to him (hint: he did not say a single word about gay marriage or abortion, but he said a whole lot about rich people).
In 2017, I trust the women. Merry Christmas.
Three Wise Women Visit the Baby Jesus
(What Child Is This?)
By Liza Long
In winter time, three women wise
Went by the moon’s cold light
To Bethlehem to see the god
Born under a new star’s light
The Babe, the Son of Mary
Each bore a gift for the newborn King
More rare than silver or gold
They gave his mother their offering
And the infant's fate foretold,
The Babe, the Son of Mary
First Woman
I bring a cloth of linen fine
Hand-made upon the loom
That weaves the fates of gods and men
And spells the new god's doom
The Babe, the Son of Mary
Second Woman
I bring a cup of potter’s clay
Hand-fashioned, fired, and fine
A cup to share at his last meal
When his blood becomes the wine.
The Babe, the Son of Mary
Third Woman
I bring a rose that blooms in snow
Its petals soft and red
A rose that pricks, with sharp, hard thorns
That will crown his glorious head
The Babe, the Son of Mary
A cloth, a cup, and a rose
Are the gifts the wise women chose
For the Babe, the Son of Mary
Then bring a cloth, a cup, a rose,
Come peasant, princess to mourn him.
While wise men kill him, wise women weep
As they comfort the mother who bore him.
A cloth, a cup, and a rose
Are the gifts the wise women chose
For the King of Kings, the Prince of Peace,
The man, the god, from Galilee
Who gave his life for you and me:
The Babe, the Son of Mary.
The Babe, the Son of Mary.