Mothers of Mercy

kecharitomene

Carven, gilded, broken, winsome,

         sinless, frowning, tearful, smiling,

Held by angels, glued to dashboards,

lissome, frozen—

plastic, stone—

         flesh or gold.

Many mothers.

         

We walk in  museums of mothers.

         We live through millennia of mothers

all holding this one child,

         this every child,

this child of a million mothers.

These mothers transubstantiating one cell 

         into someone ready to redeem the manifest—

         into something ready to reclaim the hidden.

Sweet babe aborning with hosannas,

and stars and rosy light and hope,

         torn from its tomb,

landing in this hellish, muck-filled stable of a world.

This amazing image:

Mary—all of us—man and woman alike—all of history,

         laboring to birth one child.

Transforming almost nothing

into Salvation.