Mary

Holding the Infant close,
In swaddling clothes,
She kissed His cheek,
Pink as a rose;
Then touched her fingertip
To His bright hair,
Through tear-dimmed eyes,
Noting the halo there,
Around His baby head,
Knowing the time would come
When childhood day had fled
He would wear a crown
Of cruel thorns upon his brow.
Yet, now, as angel voices rang
O’er Bethlehem’s plain,
Joy in His birth transcended
Any pain she might anticipate;
And mother-love mirrored upon her face,
In this triumphant hour,
Made her Earth’s brightest flower!

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