BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

Into the depths, He comes,

The Lonely Wanderer,

The Child Knight,

Too young to be dissuaded

By sensible dispute

Or death’s embrace.

He is fresh from the virgin womb;

Her lullabies still echo in His ears,

And darkness does not dissuade Him.

Into Eden’s heart, grown cold,

He frolics, with Wisdom, at child’s play,

Training for His mournful battle day,

Long awaited, since the thorns climbed,

Choking off the Tree of Life.

The serpent sang his song here,

Blessing apples with poison

And nakedness with shame.

But this child is destined

To be cursed, oh happy fault,

And climb another tree.

He is wounded at play, poor lamb,

His blood lapped up by wolves,

Drops splashing to earth

And making the rocks

Flash like rubies.

Blessed be the thorns that bloom,

Twisted into crowns!

Blessed be the apple that enticed,

And earned us our bread!

Here, He comes,

His wounds still visible,

Descending into hungry caverns

And black corners,

Only to adcend again,

Like a spinning disk

After the stars die.

He is the Host, eternal, ablaze,

Sun of the First Day Feast

Who makes wheat to ripen

And grapes to grow!

He is the Warrior King,

Young in Winters,

Experienced in the field,

Yet a child—O God!

How can this be?

Yet look upon Him,

With His blood-stained spear!

He tasted Hell’s desserts

That we take His pierced hand

Upon His Dancing Day!