Mary and Thorns

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem

contemporary poem

We wonder, then, how many were her thorns,

Her woe stabs, as the years went by before

He wore the crown of thorns, his harsh spur thorns

That spun him towards his final hours.  She bore

For one the weight of insult at the feast,

The wedding feast in Cana.  “What have I

To do with thee?” he asked.  This were the least

Of them perhaps to make his mother cry. . .

And then that other time, remember.  “Who

Is my mother?” — that jolting question,

So harsh for anyone to hear, to chew,

And hardest on a mother’s digestion.

  And then, and then she stands beneath the flow

    Of blood on Calvary, that barbing woe.

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