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