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Again her tears gushed forth, profuser and more abundant than before; her frail body shook with sobs, her fingers intertwined. “Not wholly dead,” she kept repeating. “No, no, not wholly dead.” Jesus touched his treasurer. “She is not herself. Lead her away; see her to her home.” And that the others might hear, and profit as well, he added, in a higher key, “Deference to a woman is always due.”
May we not come to the sacred manger too? Are our Church festivals so many that we need dread to add another? Is our religion so inclined to gayety and money-making that we need curb its joyous tendencies? The very air of Christmas is marvellous. The heavens are never so blue, the sun never shines with a profuser generosity.
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