O Mother

Upon blue velvet yet I weave

a terminal brocade

of golden love and silver pain

with red impatience made,

a tapestry to life and death

in words so soon to fade.

 

Oh Mother, Queen, all clothed in blue

and bathed in endless light,

within whose womb the Savior slept

and found His true delight,

you weave your love in simple words

that put my speech to flight.

 

Let me in blue your Son pursue

through you, O Mother kind,

until the day I’m brought away

eternal life to find.

‘Til then, let me your servant be.

To you, my heart I bind.

Posted on October 1, 2013, in Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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