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
The Pope and President Tangle
In April, the Holy Father and the president of the United States traded barbs. The proximate cause…
While We’re At It
In Palm Sunday reflections posted on his website, Coram Fratribus, Bishop Erik Varden observes: In the Saint…
Letters—June/July 2026
The sentimental images painted of proud, tight-knit communities slowly crumbling away are compelling, but I have to…
