by Bethany Mootsey
Dear Mother Mary must have been a saint
To raise a youngster who was always right.
I wonder not that all the portraits paint
Her visage with an otherworldly light.
Imagine being born the next in line
And having sandals of such size to fill—
To hear, when making mischievous design,
“No, James, for I must do my Father’s will.”
And yet the mother and her brooding brood
Depleted selves of self and recognized
Divinity transcending family feud,
The prophet in his home no more despised.
If those so close could bear his reprimands,
What ease have I to heed my Lord’s commands!