He was never a child in the normal sense: always
Somehow strangely adult; I was the child
Of the two! He never cried, or lied,
Or asked for things, we never had to chide
Except when we found Him disputing at the doctors’ side.
The hardest thing of all was to watch Him die: I
Didn’t understand, even then, what it meant.
I thought it was the end, with nothing to come:
He was swaddled again, but this time in a tomb,
Not in His manger as the fruit of my womb.
His followers fled like the shepherdless sheep;
The Magdalene’s face was a mask etched in grief.
A widow, I went to John’s house as He’d said.
When the rumour spread that He wasn’t dead
I dared to remember what the angel had said.
Then I prayed a prayer as I knelt there
Praising God for His goodness to me, and to all;
When He seemed to quicken again under my heart
I knew it was true: He was living, a part
Of the Godhead, never really to depart.