By Jacob Boddicker, SJ
In the bleak mid-winter of sorrow, sin,
When naught ought blossom on Tepeyac mound
Nor bird pick up its fife and merry sing
‘til the barren hill was by Mary crowned.
Gold-gowned and round with child, the virgin ark
Bearing the true priest-king for people lost
In old world’s end ‘fore Old World’s conq’ring barques
Birthing iron-clad men and murdering host.
“Fear not,” she says beneath the starlit sky
That robed her ‘bout, the moon beneath her feet
And Son-lit, gazing down with loving eye
On the children she’d come from Heav’n to greet,
to bring us joy and hope amid our woes
lo! winter bears an impossible rose.