The song could be sung boisterously
and in harmony, were they so inclined,
by Karl Marx, Che Guevara, Ho Chi Minh
and any other revolutionary leader;
telling, as it does, of capital’s masters
getting their come-uppance
and despotic rulers being called to account;
whilst the poor and the humble
are gently elevated to their place of reward.
But hundreds of years before they could ever
form their รก capella chorus, the song
is placed by gospel-writer Luke
on the lips of the girl-woman
from Nazareth, as she deals hopefully
with the prospect of impending motherhood.
Was Mary a revolutionary?
Did she have any idea of the unsettling
implications of her unplanned-for pregnancy?
Could she have ever guessed the trembling
that would be induced by these
troublesome words, as, freed from
popular sentimental accretions,
they reverberate through the centuries
to unease those who worship power,
wealth and comfort?
Probably not;
she seemed to leave the politics to her son.
But here it is: a graffiti spray song
of promise to confront respectable walls;
an outrageous cry in the dark
to call forth the glimpsed but ever distant dawn,
for which we are still waiting.
© Ken Rookes
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