A Testament to the Hours
The tension in your womb bares no certain words;
only the voiceless sense of hidden hands
plaiting the future deep within.
You feel the formation of a sovereign seed––
a lily-of-the-valley destined to rise
in this wilderness of humanity.
Yet within your joy at the fruit of your loins,
you behold Isaiah’s prophecy
of that sacred flower shredded by the hour.
Right then you consider abandoning the seed
in a savage ecstasy of shock and grief
but persevere despite sin’s heinous pleas.
As conception’s reckoning prods and fades,
you foresee a lost lily recovered in the temple,
telling you with reverent irony:
“Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?”