Accompanied by Angels: Poems of the Incarnation by Luci Shaw
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a wonderful collection. In the midst of the stress of the holidays, I was thankful to have a few moments to read these poems, which rekindled a sense of awe at the incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Christ.

Luci Shaw has a way of making truths that I’ve always known come alive to me in a new way. For example, I love "Mary's Song" for its portrayal of Mary's quiet wonder at her Baby, who she knew was God Himself:

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast
keep warm this small hot naked star
fallen to my arms. (Rest . . .
you who have had so far to come.)
Now nearness satisfies
the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps
whose eyelids have not closed before.

His breath (so slight it seems
no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps
to sprout a world. Charmed by dove’s voices,
the whisper of straw, he dreams,
hearing no music from his other spheres.
Breath, mouth, ears, eyes
he is curtailed who overflowed all skies,
all years. Older than eternity, now he
is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed
to my poor planet, caught
that I might be free, blind in my womb
to know my darkness ended,
brought to this birth for me to be new-born,
and for him to see me mended
I must see him torn.

And “Mary’s Song” is typical of the poems in this collection. Not every one of the poems were as moving, but some, like this one, are truly marvelous.

Some of my other favorites were “The Meaning of White Oaks,” “One,” “A Blessing for the New Baby,” “Bluff Edge, Whidby Island,” “The Partaking.”

For me, the most moving poem in this book was one near the end entitled “Revolutionary.” It's a powerful expression of the injustice that Christ endured, and the wonder of the love He showed us by going to the cross.

Do you
wince when you hear his name
made vanity?

What if you were not so safe
sheltered, circled by love
and tradition? What if
the world shouted at you?
Could you take the string of
hoarse words -- glutton, wino,
devil, crazy man, agitator, bastard,
nigger-lover, rebel --
and hang the grimy ornament
around your neck
and answer love?

See the sharp stones poised
against your head! Even
your dear friend
couples your name with curses
(“By God! I know not God!”).
The obscene affirmation
of infidelity
echoes, insistent
from a henhouse roof.

Then, Slap! Spit! The whip,
the thorn. The gravel
grinds your fallen knees
under a whole world’s weight
until the hammering home
of all your virtue
stakes you, stranded,
halfway between hilltop
and heaven (neither will
have you).

And will you whisper forgive?

Poems like these leave me speechless.

I hope to read this book again, along with more of Shaw’s books.