This is what happens when you write after reading Hildegard von Bingen lyrics.
No eye but God's can pierce the womb; no hand there shapes the living clay. No breath stirs there or in the tomb; no light can bring therein the day except God's own, and there he makes our human life. Our form he takes. The waters there hold all his dust; he dwells within a land of gloom, a seed in empty garden thrust— oh, see, our desert places bloom! Our inner darkness fills with light, unfolding to the savior's sight. Our lungs will fill with his first breath; our blood runs rivers in his veins. His birth will sanctify our death, and, bound to life, he breaks our chains within the secret world unseen of Mary's body, heaven's queen. Creation now in labor groans; we groan with her who so long waits. But now the King of Glory comes: Lift up your heads, ye mighty gates, and let him enter. Who is he? God-with-us in humanity.
