O King of nations, you come closer and closer to Bethlehem where you will be born. The journey is drawing nigh and your august mother, consoled and strengthened by your delightful weight, does not cease to converse with you on the way. She adores your divine majesty, she gives thanks for your mercy, she rejoices to have been chosen for the sublime ministry of serving as God's mother. She longs for and fears at the same time the moment when her eyes will contemplate you. How will she be able to serve your sovereign greatness worthily, she who regards herself as the least of your creatures? How will she dare to carry you in her arms, press you against her bosom, nurse you upon her mortal breast? And yet, she comes to reflect that the hour is approaching when, without ceasing to be her son, you will leave her womb and claim all the cares of her tenderness. Then her heart fails her and motherly love is blended with her love for her God. She almost dies in the unequal struggle between her weak human nature and the stronger and mightier feelings in her heart. But you sustain her, O Desired of Nations, for you wish that she may arrive at the time of that blessed birth that must give the earth its Savior and men the cornerstone which will make of them one family.