And who would take my word, this pregnant teen,
Who claimed an angel visited my room,
To tell me God Himself had set the scene
To place His Very Son inside my womb?
And how could I say anything but “Yes,
Be done to me according to Your word.”
And how could I be anything but blessed,
When first The Living Word within me stirred.
And how was I to know that God’s own Son
Would start His life inside a feeding trough,
And end on crucifix (would anyone?),
Exploited, battered, bartered, “crowned,” and scoffed.
And when I think my womb shared blood with God,
Who gave me life? I’m humbled, blessed, and awed.
© Marie Elena Good, 2017