Theotokos

Just another peasant girl, born to beat ragged robes on a rock, hands of milk curdling in a desiccated crossroad. In trouble, Lord knows who, quickly, quietly wed, narrowly cheating the primitive brutality of this angular people. Not for this bewildered child did great philosophers make arduous pilgrimage, render costly gifts, prostrate themselves, precious silk garments and cultivated palates pressed into the acrid dung floor. Not for her did an unlikely choir of cattle and kings, shepherds and seraphim make matchless music of praise. She only bore him. Iron spiked, coarse grained, rough-hewn tool of torturers, instrument of humiliation for criminals and patriots, freedom fighters and xenophobes, fashioned for frontier justice, no appeal. Not for this blood-stained post did midnight subdue day, anguished thunder rip the fabric of ritual, darkness surrender captives, ransom paid. Not to honor this oaken artifact, unlikely symbol of power turned on its head, have a hundred generations rendered costly devotion. It only bore him.