I look at this child, new to the world,

Eyes shut and face scrunched in sleep.

I look at this child, new to the world,

Skin wrinkled and tender, fingers softly curled.

I look at this child, new to the world,

And I wonder how you, Mary, Mother of God, felt.

When the Spirit tore through you,

Not even asking permission, invading you

In the rape of rapes—did you feel anger,

Even for a moment, or merely pain?

Did you ever feel pride that you, of all women,

Were chosen to bear the King?

At least this babe—the one shifting in my grip—

Was born of choice and love.

He entered the world joyfully

With a family to watch over and protect him,

To insure his safety and happiness as well we can.

You cannot say as much, dear Mary,

And the Child you bore was the most important in the world.

This babe I hold tight, soft and new,

Tiny dark curls still a bit moist,

Eyes shut and fists clenched, asleep

—and I wonder what he dreams—

Is not mine, though already I love him,

Already I will defend him to the last.

And you, Mary, Mother of God, how did you feel?

Joseph believed he was chosen, Son of David,

Believed God honored him with the care of the King.

But, dear Mary, we know the truth—

It was you picked, you the herald and bearer,

You were the choice out of all creation—

You were picked, dearest of Mary's—

You were the Mother of God.

Are you not proud, little maid of Nazareth?

Ah, but pride is a sin—

Were you excited to be the one who bore the King?

You were the greatest woman in the world,

Mary, Mother of God—you were the Holy Raped.

If pride were not a sin, would you be proud?

If anger were not a sin, would you be furious?

Mary, did you ever dare to question Him for taking you?

Did you ever scream and cry, beg the sky why, and fall to your knees?

Did you demand, with broken innocence and righteous fury,

Why he shattered through you,

Breaking and mending you, leaving a child?

Did you once feel terrified?

After you laid eyes on your Child, did your soul heal?

Was all forgiven? Did you fall in love?

I look at the babe in my arms and I adore him,

In all his tiny perfection.

I can't see beyond his tiny frame—

Is this how you felt, Mary, holding God in your embrace?

When you kissed the king, did you wonder Why me?

I'm sure you never questioned Joseph—

Just a man, what would he know?

And you couldn't ask your mother—

She'd never understand; how could she?

She never felt God's hand rip through her, leaving such a seed,

A spark of life and revolution, the salvation of humanity.

Tell me, dear Mary, if you can hear me from Paradise

—as the Mother of God, I'm sure you made it there—

Did you ever demand an explanation of your Child's Father?

Did you once ask why?

Or did you merely bow your head and keep on your way,

Like a good daughter of your time?

I look at the baby conceived in love and to be raised the same—

Was it love, Mary? Or duty?

Or, for you, were they the same?