Thomas Jefferson gripped his daughter’s hand hard. “She sang that,” he whispered. “She liked that song.”

The age-old words rang out: “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid.”

Martha Randolph saw her father’s lips moving. Was he praying? No, his eyes were not cast down and there was no humility in the set of his shoulders. He was looking straight ahead and upward, into the high lift of the ceiling above the chancel where a round window framed an indigo-dark circle of the sky. She caught the faint whisper from his lips.

“I am here,” he was saying to some vision unseen, “I am here, beloved.”

Transcriber’s Notes