I wonder what he must have thought when long ago that night                                               They came and knocked upon his door, a travel-wearied sight.

“We’ve journeyed far across the land, just as the law required.                                                         So do you have a place for us?” they earnestly inquired.

“We’ve come because we’re family; like you, we’re David’s kin.                                                   A distant cousin you must be, so won’t you let us in?”

“My house is small,” he might have said, “and every spot is taken.                                         You’ve come too late–please go before my children you awaken.

And then he saw her anxious eyes, her cloak all smudged with earth,                                             Yet bulging with the signs of one who was to soon give birth.

“Perhaps,” he said, “there is one place to come in from the cold.                                                    It’s not a room, it’s just a barn, with musty smells of old.

“It’s where we keep our family’s sheep; it’s full of straw and hay.                                                   But you can have it if you need a spot where she may lay.”

And so it was that in that keep and on that very night                                                               The Savior of the world was born to bring to all the light.

For like the master of that house we think our lives are full.                                                    But then one day He’ll come to us, in gentleness to rule.

He’ll ask us just as long ago, for we too are His kin:                                                                     “Is there a place within your heart where I may now come in?”

I wonder what we’ll think that day, I wonder what we’ll say                                                       When Jesus knocks upon our door and asks if He may stay.