The Annunciation Poem by James Mullaney

The Annunciation



'How can this be, since I know not a man? '
Mary, all generations call Thee blest.
You good and boundless joy to sweet Saint Anne,
You Second Eve, mosaics east to west,
Byzantium to Rome to Chartres, make known:
Immaculate streams yield not to dry dust.
O light so rare! O fire so fine! O throne,
O flower! The fruit of Thy womb is just.
Lissommest Mary, the chastened world waits,
Bruised hand to bruised hand in hushed, heartsome praise.
In troubles, when our wiser shame abates
we need the mind of the Ancient of Days.
Hence, Thou and Thy Lord did one accord reach:
both betook flesh by accession of each.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Topic(s) of this poem: religious
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