GETTING CENTRE FRAME

CATEGORY

life

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Oh crucifix of domesticity, Wooden prophetess, Why do you wind my grief around you so? Crude cross, So prematurely spelling out "pain". Sibyl of Nazareth - at once you're snatched! From my peasant hands, By this playful infant: Laughing, like all innocents, unseeing danger, Weeping through a chuckle, He touches you, his fate, Mourning too soon The loss of childhood, As I, Mary, cry such tears as Only mothers cry. Kneeling upon fallen wool, I must lay him down gently. To the hearth, do I then retreat, calling: "Jehovah, if you know a shred of human need, Come and raise him! Make him sit! Lift him from this ignominious end! As he will do for Lazarus; as destiny dictates. Pray, send you choirs of angels setting the pieta in glorious reverse! Lord, unwind death now. Let Jesus stand, while I bow. Sad Mary of the darkly hooded eyes, Your servant; an austere, basic Madonna, I Pointlessly, my hands always shall ring, And centuries of artists' painted cryptic smiles on my cracked face Could never gloss over us two; Mother and child. Nor ever untie my weathered hands so I might help This superman - who once neutralised sin. Just as poems will fail to shed light On all I remember. I am your suffering Mary, and Jesus' next of kin.