As it’s Monday, I’m brining you a bit of creative writing. I had intended there to be a short story for today, but I haven’t quite gotten it where it needs to be yet. Thus, “The Heathen,” shall come next week. It looks like the day after Christmas. I don’t know whether to think of that as appropriate or not. For today, a simple poem, as we enter the last week of Advent leading to Christmas, I have been thinking about Mary.
— what child is this? (a poem for mary) —
what child is this?
fourteen-year-old imagination testing the thin places of reality,
greeted by angelic glory and called full of grace.
she carried the Glory within her.
what child is this?
small womb set to filling, brimming, bursting,
commanded to create Creator, christened by flesh.
she carried the Creator within her.
what child is this?
lips parted to poeticize prophetic of ancient promise made by ancienter Father,
Spirit-wound sung lyrics of enunciated annunciation for all mankind.
she carried the Artist within her.
what child is this?
on frail donkey’s back carried to Bethlehem,
a prefigured entry triumphant in parallel to the future of the unborn Son.
she carried the Sun within her.
what child is this?
girl who would lay God into the dung-stained manger,
put head against husband and cried in labor pain.
she carried the Holy within her.
what child is this?
who would learn every stumble and fall, mark in heart each cut,
would see as only she, Joseph, God could see, what scourged and healing stripes meant.
she bore Emmanuel from her.
life from life.
Light from Light.
true Human from true human.
true God from true God.
begotten.
Begotten.
what child is this?
this, this, is Mary mother,
who was chosen by God,
our Lord, our King.
Grace, grace, the Word made flesh:
the child gives birth to immortal Child.
© 2011, Preston. All rights reserved.
