MARY SINGS

MARY SINGS

My spirit sings

at the sheer memory of a drift of wings

across my chamber floor, the night wind crying

over still Nazareth, complacent lying

in arms of March, down where the small street turned

and one wan candle burned.

My heart will break

until I tell in song this poignant ache

of after-music, soft as moon-fall blending

with peace along the lakes of years unending,

sweet as the peal of Beauty's vesper-bell,

O give me leave to tell!

Since I had known

the burning hunger of the rose full blown ...

robins and larks, and little feet that pattered

past my low window - sounds the light breeze scattered

caught at my heart to find its lilies thrill - 

a wistful woman's still.

Then came a day

of which I sing in simple woman's way,

knowing nor lustrous note nor word can capture 

or loose the leashes of that midnight rapture;

white as the broken bread of promise, this -

the Spirit's ineffable kiss!

O piteous plight

of Joseph dreaming lonely in the night

who did not hear a rush of white wings whirring

through the soft dark, nor the swift music stirring

in my wild heart brimmed with a surging grace,

dreaming a little face.

My woman's art

wove at a living loom beneath my heart,

where through my body's maiden weft was twining

deific, golden warp in patterns shining,

on Love's swift shuttle to life's fabric spun -

God's infinite, deathless Son.

O you who sing,

who break your hearts against the joy of spring,

straining your lutes to catch life's living laughter,

know that the lonely loves you follow after

lie cradled in my young arms' fragile quest -

Et incarnatus est!*

Sister M Thérèse

Give Joan a Sword. MacMillan. 1945

Used with permission

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* And (the Word) was made flesh