Advent to Candlemas (Vol. 3)


High above Andean cities stands
The Queen of Heaven in full array,
Sometimes mistaken for her son,
Through whom and not to whom we pray.

Yet queens are mothers if God wills
But piety has dulled her pain
From ruptured flesh and broken heart,
Which brought her to her son's domain.

More than enough of faultless flesh
And trophy smiles pervade our sense:
The icon's power is in the flaw
Which hides her pure obedience.