Sometimes I wonder, no, always I do, each time I see that face

Nondescript and plain, but we know her by name, staring at the corner.

She, who carried the world’s greatest prize, praised for her fragile state.

Would she have bathed herself in impure waters if someone had chosen to warn her?

Holy Mary, Full of Grace, forgive me, I find it absurd

Your reward for all your virtues was a life riddled with wounds and scrapes.

It never seemed right and I regret that I might challenge the Sacred Word.

But how can we celebrate on into time this wondrous, blessed rape?

Days in her honor, for she carried the Child, the Man who changed the world.

If the Child had come through non-immaculate conception would the legend fall?

Would He be less worthy if his father was not a light hovering over the girl?

Would she not be held to the highest esteem if she lay with a man after all?

And what does it say about us, now, today that we continue to value this tale?

No woman has ever been sainted for being anything but quiet and stale.

So forgive me, Our Father, if I choose to believe she was more like Me.

Just a woman, a wife, with an inspiring life, and those eyes should hold more than we’ve seen.