Those No Tyrant Can Bully

Snow tumbled down white
And the streets were left an icy bright
Memory of red colonial brick.

The trick was to walk with arthritic legs
Without falling.
Going to Mass was a “sinister” old woman, as that certain Tyrant named her,
As he called all those with grey heads who, like Barbara Fritchie,
He could not win; and he could not bully not even into a sweet despise
Of old routines and freedoms,
Of tattered blue-lit skies, or tattered flags.
No show of force
Can ragtag the lilies and the sparrows from out of what they know is whole, is good,
From within His niches, from within His Presence.

“Sinister” old women also know through constancy,
Through years of kitchen work and children,
That human hearts were made to pray -- and those Fritches know what to pray for.
In the silent stir of incensed myrrh
And candle fire,
They know the dearest pain of their own wonderfully heard voices.
Should anyone ever be made to say: “shoot if you must this old grey head!”
Having said,
“Sinister” old women will also, steadfastly, silently, trust in God.
Deeply trust in the God who gives to His morning glorious snow.

How it tumbles down freely!
Glorious, starry, pure and brave springtime snow for all His feeble ones,
And for all who would sort them out and conquer them.

God is giving Himself away
Even to those we thwart,
Even to those we dread.
 Those No Tyrant Can Bully
Snow tumbled down white
And the streets were left an icy bright
Memory of red colonial brick.

The trick was to walk with arthritic legs
Without falling.
Going to Mass was a “sinister” old woman, as that certain Tyrant named her,
As he called all those with grey heads who, like Barbara Fritchie,
He could not win; and he could not bully not even into a sweet despise
Of old routines and freedoms,
Of tattered blue-lit skies, or tattered flags.
No show of force
Can ragtag the lilies and the sparrows from out of what they know is whole, is good,
From within His niches, from within His Presence.

“Sinister” old women also know through constancy,
Through years of kitchen work and children,
That human hearts were made to pray -- and those Fritches know what to pray for.
In the silent stir of incensed myrrh
And candle fire,
They know the dearest pain of their own wonderfully heard voices.
Should anyone ever be made to say: “shoot if you must this old grey head!”
Having said,
“Sinister” old women will also, steadfastly, silently, trust in God.
Deeply trust in the God who gives to His morning glorious snow.

How it tumbles down freely!
Glorious, starry, pure and brave springtime snow for all His feeble ones,
And for all who would sort them out and conquer them.

God is giving Himself away
Even to those we thwart,
Even to those we dread.