Theotokos*

Just another peasant girl, racial minority,
Born to beat ragged robes on a rock,
Hands of milk curdling in a
        desiccated crossroad.
In trouble, lord knows who.
Quickly, quietly wed,
Narrowly cheating the primitive brutality
        of this angular people.

Not for this bewildered child did great philosophers
        make arduous pilgrimage,
        render costly gifts,
        prostrate themselves, precious silk garments
        and cultivated palates pressed into the
        acrid dung floor.
Not for her did an unlikely choir of
        cattle and kings,
        shepherds and seraphim
        make matchless music of praise.
She only bore him.

Iron spiked, coarse grained, rough-hewn
        tool of torturers,
        Instrument of humiliation for criminals and patriots,
        freedom fighters and xenophobes.
        Fashioned for frontier justice, no appeal.

        Not for this blood stained post did
        midnight subdue day,
        anguished thunder rip the fabric of ritual,
        darkness surrender captives, ransom paid.
        Not to honor this oaken artifact,
             unlikely symbol of power turned on its end,
        have a hundred generations
        rendered costly devotion.
        It only bore him.

(* Greek, meaning "God-bearer")

© 1996, Sanford C. Shugart

TOP