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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 á 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