Prelude

The little hand lay open in his mother's palm; large tears washed streaks of white across two dirty cheeks. His soft, dark eyes were wide with innocence and pain, and small, trembling lips found it difficult to speak. She held him close and wiped the spot of blood away and applied to the injury a bit of balm. "Now, don't cry; a carpenter often hurts his hands. All will be well. Shall Mama sing to you a psalm?" The child's sobs hushed; all around the house grew still save for the sound of Joseph's tools against the wood. "Sing the shepherd's psalm, Mama; sing of the way through death's shadowed valley and the Shepherd who is good." Mary pressed his rosy cheek closer to her breast; her eyes welled up with stinging tears; her face grew pale. She held the little injured hand and knew not why she trembled so at the imprint of one small nail.