The womb that cannot bear new life
is, instead, bearing pain.
Seemingly meaningless and devoid of promise,
for the hard grip – twisted deformed rocks –
makes it unrecognized as gift…
The fruit of love conceived
in union with the Pierced Heart
shedding blood, suffering,
giving of oneself for the other…
The womb that cannot carry
feels the weight of souls.
© 2017 Christina Chase
I don't call myself a poet — but the beating of my heart is poetry. I don't call myself a theologian — but the light of my mind seeks the Divine. Who I am is a Child of God, a Divine Creation, a person devoted to being fully human, fully alive.