Vincent van Gogh
pencil and charcoal drawing, 1883
She has no gold, no myrrh, no frankincense,
Yet comes to him this night on bended knee
To rock his cradle, not a recompense,
But a gift to him. This is tranquility—
Small girl of five or six in a cotton dress,
A tiny infant sleeping with one hand
Grasping a blanket, warm against his chest,
Cheek resting on a pillow. Understand
There are no halos here, no angel wings
Like Botticelli painted, or Bernard,
And yet the hand that rocks the cradle brings
Us to a place where those of high regard
Bow down and worship, humbled at the sight
Of infinite inhabiting finite.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Christian Ownership Maximalism
Christendom is gone. So, too, is much of the Western civilization that was built atop it. Christians…
Abandonment of Truth (ft. George Weigel)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, George Weigel joins…
Kings, Behold and Wail
I was a full-time parish priest at a time when we still visited people in their homes.…
