The Christ-child lay on Mary’s lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s breast
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary’s heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world’s desire.)
The Christ-child stood on Mary’s knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down.
Once again, I am fascinated by the way the painter captures the playful, wilful, natural movements of the Child. In that last painting, the Divine Christchild is trying to escape his mother’s grasp, reaching out with his newly discovered power of movement. Like all clever carers, she holds him just enough to keep him safe, allowing him to test his strength, not allowing him to fall.