the easter cycle: his mother

I remember the angel–
I remember how he came to me
One morning, told me of the
Coming favor of the Lord,
The coming deliverance He would
Bring. And I remember wondering
At the absurdity of it all, a virgin
Girl raising a carpenter boy
Whose name would be salvation.

And I watched that boy of mine
Being torn into pieces by the very
Powers I thought he had come to
Save us from–his body broken
Like so much bread,
Giving me another son in his place
While he gasped his last breaths,
This boy I had seen breathe his first.

And then the angel came again,
This time to his tomb,
And now my boy, my eldest boy,
Is here, no longer my child but
My Lord, and now I ponder
The foolishness of it all,
The horror of the cross become
Our true deliverance and power.

These days I wait for the angel
To come one more time and blow
His trumpet–when my body shall
Be raised, and I shall rise to meet
The King, the Son, in the air.

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the easter cycle: his mother

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