Her softness, belies sure strength.
Her quiet speech, simple wisdom.
Lauded through all ages hence,
Her poor estate, His kingdom.
And Mary said:
“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my saviour.
For he has looked upon his handmaid’s lowliness; behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.”
~ Luke 1:46-48
The might of his sceptre will surely flower,
His return foretold, not far away,
But until it dawns, that precious hour,
Asleep in the womb, He quietly lays.
Spider lily buds
Distant now, the angel’s greeting,
Eight months had passed, waiting,
Then from winter’s still, arising!
God within her, gently stretching.
Nov 28, 2013
A restful heart,
Her love, deeply felt,
With playful kicks,
His love, gently dealt.
An ocean within, drifting,
The hour racing, late,
Until Mary at last, finding,
A refuge, a home, a bed.
This flower reminds me of a trophoblast, an early embryo, which drifts in the womb before finally implanting.
The moment, unattended,
A miracle within the womb.
And where her heart had laboured alone,
Another now finds in her, a home.
“1n Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall name him Jesus.”
~ Luke 1:31
Soft the muslin swaddle,
Awaiting that blessed hour,
For the babe, yearning to cradle,
On whom rests, all grace and power.
Leaves of the bird’s nest fern