In the doorway of a low grey house,
built of stones as old as the Crusades, a woman of Bruges sits in the sunlight, among the flowers, saying her Rosary. The story of Mary is her own story, and her son was her life’s joy and her life’s sorrow; and for ever her son is her life’s glory. In a field in Flanders, among the red poppies, he is sleeping: he will sleep soundly until the day of resurrection. She has still the patchwork quilt made, when her hands were nimble, for the wooden cot: now he is sleeping, and each year he has a new coverlet of delicate young grass, and at the end of his cot a wooden cross. The cradle of the wood, the wood of the cross: from cradle to cross, like a lullaby. The story of the woman of Bruges is the world’s story. it is the story of human joy and sorrow, woven and interlaced, like the blue and crimson thread in a woven cloth: the story of birth and death, of war and the rumours of war and of peace past understanding, peace in the souls that live in the life of Christ. In the doorway in Bruges, sitting among the flowers, her mind like a velvet bee droning over a rose, taking the honey of comfort out of the heart of Love, the old woman is nodding over her Rosary. She has lived her meditation, like the Mother of God, living the life of Christ: let her sleep in Christ’s peace. Caryll Houselander, 1901-1954
1 Comment
Donna
8/10/2018 10:47:06 am
What a gorgeous painting!
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