O Come O Come Emmanuel, Part 4
If you remember from Part 1, this beautiful carol—when sung in Latin—forms a backward acrostic that spells the phrase “ERO CRAS,” meaning “Tomorrow, I come.” That short line captures the answer to the longing that runs through the whole hymn. Each verse names Christ with a different title, and each title unfolds a facet of who He is—and why His coming matters.
5. “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appears.
Each verse of this hymn proclaims deep truths about the Son of God, but few do so as directly as this one. “Emmanuel” means “God with us.” What a staggering promise.
Ever since our first parents were driven from the Garden because of sin, humanity has lived in exile—separated from our Lord and Creator. Then Christ came: God in the flesh. The distance was not merely shortened; it was crossed. God did not send help from far away—He came near. More than that, He shared our human nature.
The depths of this mystery are almost impossible to put into words:
the Infinite clothing Himself in finiteness;
the Creator of the stars living under their light;
the One who never grows weary, sleeping in His mother’s arms.
And He took on our humanity for a purpose: to save. He came “to ransom,” entering our condition so that “through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death.” (Hebrews 2:14) He came to rescue us from what we could never escape on our own.
That rescue language fits the story of Israel, too. In Israel’s history, exile shows up most clearly in two great chapters: Egypt and Babylon. In both, God’s people groaned under bondage and loss, and in both, God heard—and God acted. The carol borrows that ache and makes it personal: before Christ came to us, we were captives too. Our souls mourn in exile, enslaved to sin, longing for deliverance. Christ came to redeem His people then, and Christ came to redeem His people now—and Christ will come again to set all things right.
And here’s the wonder at the heart of Emmanuel: when Christ took on humanity, He did not dilute His divinity. Jesus is fully human and fully divine, united in one glorious person. He laid aside divine privileges, but He never stopped being God. Distinct from the Father and the Spirit, He shares with them the one divine nature—one God in three persons. He did not replace His divinity with humanity; He added humanity to Himself so that God could truly be “with us,” and so that we could be brought back to Him.
And this is why the hidden acrostic, “Ero cras—tomorrow, I come,” is so fitting. The carol gives language to our longing, but it doesn’t leave us there. It points us to the One who has already come—God with us—to ransom His people, and it trains our hearts to wait for His coming again. Advent is not merely sentimental nostalgia, no, it builds in us sturdy hope. We look back and remember that the Son of God appeared, we look around and confess that we still feel the ache of exile, and we look ahead with confidence: Emmanuel who drew near once will not remain distant forever. Tomorrow, I come. And when He does, every exile ends.
5. “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel”
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appears.
Each verse of this hymn proclaims deep truths about the Son of God, but few do so as directly as this one. “Emmanuel” means “God with us.” What a staggering promise.
Ever since our first parents were driven from the Garden because of sin, humanity has lived in exile—separated from our Lord and Creator. Then Christ came: God in the flesh. The distance was not merely shortened; it was crossed. God did not send help from far away—He came near. More than that, He shared our human nature.
The depths of this mystery are almost impossible to put into words:
the Infinite clothing Himself in finiteness;
the Creator of the stars living under their light;
the One who never grows weary, sleeping in His mother’s arms.
And He took on our humanity for a purpose: to save. He came “to ransom,” entering our condition so that “through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death.” (Hebrews 2:14) He came to rescue us from what we could never escape on our own.
That rescue language fits the story of Israel, too. In Israel’s history, exile shows up most clearly in two great chapters: Egypt and Babylon. In both, God’s people groaned under bondage and loss, and in both, God heard—and God acted. The carol borrows that ache and makes it personal: before Christ came to us, we were captives too. Our souls mourn in exile, enslaved to sin, longing for deliverance. Christ came to redeem His people then, and Christ came to redeem His people now—and Christ will come again to set all things right.
And here’s the wonder at the heart of Emmanuel: when Christ took on humanity, He did not dilute His divinity. Jesus is fully human and fully divine, united in one glorious person. He laid aside divine privileges, but He never stopped being God. Distinct from the Father and the Spirit, He shares with them the one divine nature—one God in three persons. He did not replace His divinity with humanity; He added humanity to Himself so that God could truly be “with us,” and so that we could be brought back to Him.
And this is why the hidden acrostic, “Ero cras—tomorrow, I come,” is so fitting. The carol gives language to our longing, but it doesn’t leave us there. It points us to the One who has already come—God with us—to ransom His people, and it trains our hearts to wait for His coming again. Advent is not merely sentimental nostalgia, no, it builds in us sturdy hope. We look back and remember that the Son of God appeared, we look around and confess that we still feel the ache of exile, and we look ahead with confidence: Emmanuel who drew near once will not remain distant forever. Tomorrow, I come. And when He does, every exile ends.
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