What was she expecting,
The girl with the wings of an angel in her eyes?
A child, yes, a son…
But having known no man in the Biblical sense,
Having no physical father to ponder,
What, she must have wondered,
As mind and stomach stretched,
Might a man, born of divine essence
And sweet obedience,
Resemble?
An angel, a seraph? Or some holy paragon?
With the first Adam’s pure fresh gaze?
Jacob’s smooth hands, Moses’ radiant face,
Or the wavy, raven locks of Solomon
And a body like polished ivory?
How would God manifest his glory?
Could she conceive this son of the most high,
Would choose to look really rather ordinary?
Miracles, she would learn, are not all discerned
With the naked eye.
©Mark Greene 2011
------------
No comments:
Post a Comment