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Prayer of Joseph
My mountain,
my food and rest,
my angel as both ancient and young child,
my breath.
My boat,
my returning angel,
my night light,
my birth.
My mother,
my three in one,
my soul's rest,
my word next to word,
paraphrase of the child.
My heart,
my umbilical cord,
my woman receiving annunciation,
my announcing angel,
my ave.
My pilgrimage of stillness,
my mother of the great gift,
my visitation of Heaven to earth.
My engine of harpies,
my pure in face of mockery,
my feet in the mud,
my sinners' city.
My lovable one,
my reversal of thunder,
my listener, serene with hand held up to praise,
my on-side in lonelinesse.
My counsel, understanding both the spear that pierces and the knife that circumcises,
my mother in the intimacy of birth,
my world of six daies.
My vision transposing gratitude,
my power prudent in the moment,
my Adoration,
my kind of tune.
My message which all things hear,
my blood's rejection of fear,
my softness in flight,
my beauty and peace in the shadow of the sepulchre.
My mirror of truthfulness, justice and joy,
my throne of eight angels on a seat of wisdom and love,
my scarlet cushion,
my gold and glorious garment.
My cause of joy and bliss,
my redemption of yearning,
my breath's vessel,
my exalted food.
My fruit,
my swallow,
my vessel of honour and gladness,
my bride, singular vessel of devotion to the best.
My rest and sweetness in the inhospitable,
my mystic rose,
my centre,
my tower in the ordinarie.
My Heaven,
my night flight,
my woman-man-child, in the cloak of holiness dressed,
my waterfall of blue.
My house of gold,
my milkie way,
my bird of paradise in the burning bush,
my Queen, crowned with tenderness.
My gate of Heaven,
my church bells,
my veiled in prayer,
my eyes with which I have seen the morning star.
My music of angels in the oak and laurel heard,
my health of the sick,
my mother suckling the bright infant when exhausted on a journey,
my refuge of soules.
My daughter of Ann and Joachim who met at the Golden Gate,
my birth blood washed away by the serving maid,
my help when naked in the storm,
my land of spices.
My throne of bad and good,
my sweet grapes,
my open book,
my something understood.
My prophet,
my sorrowing apostle,
my heavenly bliss,
my knife of martyrs,
my carried in procession by Cimabue confessors.
My giver of grace in a rocky landscape,
my vision of Saint Bernard,
my calling into being flowered meadows of your own being,
my exquisite under the Holy Paraclete, assumed into Heaven, private.
My lady with your feet on the earth,
my lady of the most holy Rosary,
my lamented by apostles Queen of peace,
my throne of lions.
My shoulders hunched in extreme grief under the cross,
my humility in blue and black,
my Queen in blue on a flowering meadow.
My Mary listening with celebrating angels,
my Mary clothed in the splendour of the Trinity,
my virgin among holy women.
My grieving mother,
my woman hooded in white,
my virgin with book and lutenist angel,
my grieving mother.
My stronghanded mother,
my mother of the rosary zikr,
my golden and beautiful in mandala of childness,
my Mary, the mother without pinks.
My Queen of Heaven,
my grieving mother,
my mother who discovered in the temple,
my virgin in the embrace of prayer.
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