The Great War

from Herb o' Grace, an electronic edition

The Crown

She had twelve stars for diadem;

She had for footstool the full moon;

Her quiet eyes, outshining them,

Kept memories of the night and noon

And the still moms at Nazareth

When in her arms the Child drew breath.

So safe, so warm, He slept by her,

In her enfolding arms at peace,

Her milky babe, little and dear;

And yet the Tree that should be His

Grew in the forest, wide and high,

Whose branches should fill all the sky.

He made twelve stars into her crown

And set the moon below her feet.

He was King in Jerusalem Town,

With twelve spines for His Coronet

To pierce the brain and blood and bone,

Were made for Man's Redemption.

Oh, when she answered Gabriel

With "Be it done!" could she foresee

The high pangs that she took as well?

With Bethlehem should be Calvary?

Or was that moment of high bliss

Born with sharp pangs, fierce agonies?

Hath she beneath her Crown of Stars

Remembrance of the thorns wherewith

Her people crowned her Son? What scars,

Redder than roses in a wreath,

Doth she wear in a coronal

Under the lights that rise and fall?