Wednesday, 12 December 2012

Out of the Mist ...

I held within the Saviour of the world
And walked, step by step, into the unknown
Blood and cries gave birth to Him
And as I saw myself in those dear eyes
I knew now there were different stars to behold
Other treasures to find . . .

As He grew, a tree sometimes cast a shadow across my path
Memories would return: His tiny hand clasping my finger
Him labouring in the workshop
Handling wood, pausing to talk to me
Such skilled hands that were to reach out
To those no one would touch . . .

My boy
I could not protect Him from those hate-filled looks
Murderous whispers and a jeering crowd
I could not take Him back inside
Overshadowed by rough wood
This time the blood and cries were His . . .

And as darkness fell
He spoke from out of the mist
I could barely understand it then
Giving me another family
John’s strong arm supporting me
As I stumbled and wept
Remembering the words I spoke at the beginning of it all . . .

My soul does magnify the Lord and my spirit does rejoice in God my Saviour . . .

Luke 1 vs 46–55

Picture by Henry Ossawa Tanner

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