Mary's Story (Part One and Part Two)

Mary’s Story (Part One)

The laughter and applause of social interaction,
Was a melody she knew not well at all.
Derelict, abandoned, abused and neglected.
Her only audience- a mudbrick wall.
“Adulterous whore, satan’s harlot!”
Names she knew she deserved too well.
Prostituting herself was not her ambitition,
After her mother died, she had only herself to sell.
She dreamed as a girl of baking bread.
The Shewbread for her holy home,
But death’s angel too all whom she loved.
Then thieves took every last thing that she owned.
She had no other choice- no option available,
It was fade away or try as she faded.
She was everyday crying, forever trying,
But to live, through her tears she continually waded.
What could she do? She had only three things!
Herself and the clothes she wore on her back.
The only other treasure that she held in her hand was
Her mother’s nard perfume banded alabaster and black.
Worth all her year’s wage and then some more,
It was the only memory of those whom she loved.
Expensive by value and in sentiment priceless,
To her mother she vowed it unbroken, til God descended from above.



Mary’s Story (Part Two)

She promised not to break it, that vial that she loved,
Until heavenly descended the Messiah from above.
Suddenly, during the Passover feast,
There He sat. The Prince of Peace.
“My King, My Father! Abba, My Lord.”
She proclaimed to herself, loosing the cord
that had been tied around the flask for years upon years,
As she removed it her cheeks were washed with tears.
She seized an opportunity, in obedience to her vow,
Slamming open doors and knocking down towels.
Nothing, not one thing could stand in her way,
As she ran to her saviour- the Ancient of Days.
She walked slowly in, in the midst of the feast,
Then silence crept around the room. She was the guest noone would greet.
The icy still of he room would not keep her from her task,
So she walked over to the King of Kings, crushing in her hand the alabaster flask,
The sweet and fragrant perfume anointing His royal face,
Soiling the linen and the festive, silken lace.
She crumpled under the weight of shame and to His feet she bowed,
Tears bathing His sore and blistered feet, her hair drying them like a towel.
In His presence joy at last could brighten up her heart.
And by His grace she knew her call. Her life had hit restart.
He smiled and he took her in a long awaited embrace.
She felt love once again. It became the rhythm of her ways.

i was just meditating on this yesterday...uncanny.
was listening to "alabaster box" by cece wynans accompanied by a visual presentation.
nicely done.

That one put me in tears. Beautiful, just beautiful.