New From RTV... "A Ballad of Our Lady of Tears"
Michael Matt presents a beautiful pro-life prayer that puts it all in horrific perspective.
But first, a number of Christian Never-Trumpers are arguing that it makes no difference that President Donald Trump addressed the 2018 March for Life, because it's just a lot of "lip service".
First of all, how do they know?
Secondly, would they prefer silence from the White House during the March for Life, like we got from Obama?
Finally, even if this were true, pro-life words still matter.... a great deal, in fact. Michael Matt from 2016 explains why.
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A Ballad of Our Lady of Tears, A Prayer for the Unborn
O Mary, Mother of all men
Remember how one day
You rocked a little Boy to sleep
In a cradle filled with hay.
Remember how you held Him,
The long and weary night,
You fled from Herod’s soldiers
In Egypt’s dismal flight.
How the lonely stars looked down.
How the night was long;
With hoof beats in the distance
But in your heart a song.
You trod the darkness round you
You warmed the sands so cold
You lulled the winds to whispers
And turned the tears to gold.
When God was very little
And Life was very new,
With death a lurking shadow
He chose to cling to you.
He chose not Heaven’s legions,
Nor Michael’s sword of flame,
To shield Him in the darkness;
He chose your tender name.
Your tender arms to hold Him,
Your tender eyes so deep,
Your tender voice to comfort
And sing His soul to sleep.
Look down again in pity
O Mother of Our Lord
Upon a world where children still
Must flee from Herod’s sword.
Where Moloch claims his victims still
And still the price is paid
Where lust is crowned and love is drowned
And death a grim charade.
Where little ones are torn apart
Or burned with hateful brine
Where murder in a velvet coat
Is a social valentine.
These little hands, these little feet,
These little eyes and ears,
O Mother, see their misery
Baptize them in your tears.
They have never known the sunshine
Nor felt the cool of rain
Their heritage is horror
Their first caress is pain.
They were the breath of springtime.
The promise April gave,
Til winter’s vultures ravished-
Their cradle is their grave.
And now before the Father
Some ask: whose can these be?
Please wrap your arms around them,
Say: these belong to me.
For love of Him who was little too,
Who traded Heaven to be with you,
Take these children torn apart
To the playground of your heart.
Bruised and swollen, crucified
On the cross of human pride;
May their bodies perfect rise,
Take their souls to paradise.
Let them not for want of grace
Linger in a darkened place.
Ask your Son to give them joy,
He was once a little Boy.
Now and at the hour of death,
May they feel your gentle breath;
Tuck them in a bed of white,
O Mother, sing to them tonight!
(Printed in The Remnant, 1975. Written by Theresa Ickinger, RIP)