Beewise we gather our wax all year
From bramble sorrow and thistle tear,
Briar sadness and spine of pain:
Bitter flowers that bloom again!
But deadest winter brings a day
When thorns have lovelier bloom than May;
When candles are fashioned and lit by One
Who fashioned her wax to be lit by the Sun,
Then watched her Candle burn: the price
Of sin-consuming sacrifice.
Today she shares the Flame anew
To make us priest-and-victim too.
And Mary-mothered flames and Flame
Live their sacrificial Name.
John D. Boyd
No comments:
Post a Comment