Vincent van Gogh
pencil and charcoal drawing, 1883

She has no gold, no myrrh, no frankincense,
Yet comes to him this night on bended knee
To rock his cradle, not a recompense,
But a gift to him. This is tranquility—
Small girl of five or six in a cotton dress,
A tiny infant sleeping with one hand
Grasping a blanket, warm against his chest,
Cheek resting on a pillow. Understand
There are no halos here, no angel wings
Like Botticelli painted, or Bernard,
And yet the hand that rocks the cradle brings
Us to a place where those of high regard
Bow down and worship, humbled at the sight
Of infinite inhabiting finite.

Articles by Sharon Fish Mooney