Sing of Jesus, son of Mary,
In the home at Nazareth.
Toil and labour cannot weary
Love enduring unto death.
Constant was the love he gave her,
Though he went forth from her side,
Forth to preach, and heal, and suffer,
Till on Calvary he died.
The other day, I mentioned something sticking in my craw.
My husband gave me an unimpressed stare.
“I don’t even know what that means.” he claimed.
I did a crappy job of explaining it. Perhaps I got it across that it is a negative feeling, I can’t be sure. At any rate, I say it. And I’m saying it about the above song.
This is the second verse from “Sing of Mary, Pure and Lowly.” For some reason this summer we have sung it a number of times and every time I cry. It’s a beautiful song and a beautiful tune so I have no qualms there. What sticks with me is this:
“Toil and labour cannot weary Love enduring unto death.”
Really? Because most days, toil and labour feel like they are wearying me TO death. There is no love.
And that’s why it sticks, refusing to budge up or down in my mind. This image – this thought of the Holy Family at Nazareth, in poverty, working side by side, TOILING – won’t let go. Together, in the struggle and work of life there was joy and LOVE. Love that laid it all down and never grew tired. It is breathtaking.
I think about this when I wake up in the morning, already too tired to face the day. When I lose my patience for the hundredth time. When I don’t want to fold the laundry and the dishes call. When there are baths to give and books to read and laps to share and I don’t want to do any of it.
“Toil and labour cannot weary Love enduring unto death.”
But on the days I don’t just think about it, but give it over, the Love comes and I am reminded I would die for these crazies and I want them to know Him who loved them “unto death.” I want it to be the truth in their hearts. I want it to stick in their craw in the best possible way. I rather like it sticking in mine.
