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| Mother and Child: Photo by Brent Parquette |
Sun ripened grain sways in the gentle breeze,
Our fruit bursting within, waiting for the
first harvest.
Growing amongst the tares, Heavenly Hosts
gather with ease,
And crush our offering, making them Lembas for
Eternal Rest.
O what then is left to offer, come the dead of
winter, the night half-spent?
Our stems left dry and hollow, seemingly waste,
as a splinter,
Refuse of our gift for Him rent.
Deep within this hollowness, this Hallowness,
there is room yet.
To warm, to cradle, to comfort Her Child,
As the cold of night set.
Most Hallowed Reed of God, Mother Mary, Full of
Grace,
Gently you receive your swaddled son and in our
hearts of straw you place
Pure Light, Pure Warmth, The Inscape of your
embrace.
Such joy a soul has never known, has yet to
know, to be emptied so.
Pray our hearts of straw, be Hallowed,
To warm once again the Swaddled Son brought
low,
The Son, from whom all warmth flows.
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