Madonna and Child

by Frederick M. Lynk

The angels had returned to heaven,
The shepherds to their quiet fold,
The magi to their eastern homeland,
The manger still was hard and cold.

And yet, the Infant Son of God
Could not remain in it for long:
A cruel despot's ruthless threat
Drove Him to foreign land and tongue.

The Holy Three set out in haste
To cross the burning desert sand,
But nightly made a brief sojourn,
They knew their lives were in God's hand.

Would not the white stars rise to dance,
When Mary raised her infant's face
Up to her breast beneath the trees,
That e'en the barren desert grace?

Would not the sailing clouds begrudge
Her the sweet load upon her arm?
And gladly clothe Him in the white
Of fleecy wool to keep Him warm?

Would not the thrushes sing with her
When she intoned a cradle song?
Would not the flowers bow their heads
To hear that mother fair and young?

O would that I could be a star,
A cloud, a thrush, a fragrant flower,
To shine and sail, to sing and pray,
Around the sacred desert bower.


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