by Rebecca Weber
You cannot move my heart again, I said:
Those days are past, when guidance from Your tongue
Awakened—as a love song slowly sung—
A rich devotion in my heart and head.
I may permit my footsteps to be led
Still onward by the waymarks You have hung—
But shall not dance, as when my heart was young.
You cannot stir my love; it must be dead.
Yet what is this?—this new thing You have done?
Gone down to slumber in a bed of straw,
Your splendor laid aside, Your rightful throne?
What love is this, that dares to come as one
Undone, unclothed—a homeless baby? Ah,
Despite me, something stirs my heart of stone.
Rebecca Weber is delighted to be a daughter of the King. She assumes her Swiss ancestors were weavers of cloth, but she is content to be a Nova Scotian weaver of words and a teacher, explorer, poet, dreamer, photographer, people person. She blogs at journeyintohislight.wordpress.com.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy