The children sit calmly
their complacent voices
monotone as a monk's chant.
They repeat the ancient words
recalling grace and courage
at the hour of death.
They really don't know
about the terror
and bliss of angelic visitation,
how a single greeting
can change everything
in a single moment dash
her young, pure heart
into the Judean dirt,
while her soul, enraptured,
soars high into the clear
desert sky.
These are mysteries too deep
for their supple, green minds.
But I feel
in the rise and fall of their words,
her gentle acceptance
of the thrusting sword,
her transcendent smile
as the whip
tears across His tender skin,
the redemptive power of
all undeserved suffering.
These good children do as they're told
and behave well, reverently reciting
the millennial hope
on the bright gym floor,
in their school-day
morning prayer.
(1 May 2013)
