Happy Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe
I like this poem by Mother Mary Francis, a Poor Clare nun:
Lines to Our Lady of Guadalupe
"Am I not here who am thy Mother -
What dost thou fear?"
What dost thou fear?"
Deep in the tangled brushwood of my hours,
You are a sudden clearing, Madre mia,
Amid the choke of thorn,
Incredible rose.
You are a sudden clearing, Madre mia,
Amid the choke of thorn,
Incredible rose.
And where my fears sit huddled in their trembling,
You are a soft word spoken, O Maria,
In heart's cacophany, a splendid chord!
You are a soft word spoken, O Maria,
In heart's cacophany, a splendid chord!
Brave alabaster out of hope-shards builded,
What need I dream of beauty, I who know
Curve of your cheek, the raven hair low-winging,
Soft swell of lip, the delicate flight of brow!
What need I dream of beauty, I who know
Curve of your cheek, the raven hair low-winging,
Soft swell of lip, the delicate flight of brow!
Exuberance, be hedged in Christ oh! Sweetly
By this rumorous smile's so wistful bands;
And sorrow, find your meaning, find your haven
In this gentle fold of olive hands.
And sorrow, find your meaning, find your haven
In this gentle fold of olive hands.
Authentic glimpse of heaven, Madre mia,
Your image my supernal dividend
On sorrow, and my pledge past all devising
Your image my supernal dividend
On sorrow, and my pledge past all devising
Of paradisal day. What shall I fear
Of pain, of death, of diverse ignominy
When you are here, Maria, when you are here.
Of pain, of death, of diverse ignominy
When you are here, Maria, when you are here.
- Mother Mary Francis, P.C.C.
and this one, by Anne B. Quinn
Mary, Virgin of Guadalupe
Dark lady, you smile at me across the mountains
The secret smile of ancient people.
What thoughts do you send me, dark beautiful lady?
Will you someday tell me when I come with great
armfuls of roses
Over the mysterious mountains to your feet?
Dear, dark queen will you give me too
Lovely roses in December?
The secret smile of ancient people.
What thoughts do you send me, dark beautiful lady?
Will you someday tell me when I come with great
armfuls of roses
Over the mysterious mountains to your feet?
Dear, dark queen will you give me too
Lovely roses in December?
- Anne B. Quinn
So many artists have painted her:
and
and even this wild imagining of Mary as the most powerful woman today:
whoa!
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