Labor of Love

It was not a silent night;
There was blood on the ground.
You could hear a woman cry
In the alleyway that night
On the streets of David's town.
And the stable was not clean,
And the cobblestones were cold,
And little Mary full of grace
With tears upon her face
Had no mother's hand to hold.

It was a labor of pain, it was a cold sky above.
But for the girl on the ground in the dark,
With every beat of her beautiful heart,
It was a labor of love.

Noble Joseph by her side,
Callused hands and weary eyes.
No midwives to be found
On the streets of David's town
In the middle of the night.
So he held her and he prayed,
Shafts of moonlight on his face.
But the baby in her womb,
He was the maker of the moon.
He was the Author of the Faith
That could make the mountains move.

It was a labor of pain, it was a cold sky above.
But for the girl on the ground in the dark,
With every beat of her beautiful heart,
It was a labor of love.

For little Mary full of grace, with tears on her face,
It was a labor of love.

It was not a silent night, on the streets of David's town.
~Andrew Peterson