‘Mother Fara’

 

Once it was fitting,

O Mother Fara,

For high-born royalty

To bend neck and knee

Beneath the staff

Of thine authority.

 

Far from the comforts

Of hall and home,

At thy command,

They undertook

Ascetic feats –

Fasting, prayers,

And tiring work –

To slay the beastliness

Of fallen flesh.

And many fell asleep,

Vessels full of Grace.

 

Today’s elite,

A different

Sort entirely –

Dukes and duchesses,

Vice Presidents

And First Ladies –

Who renounce mild duties

For even softer mansions,

For coffee-talk

And TV deals,

And sorrow deeply

Over small injustices

That mis’rably oppress

Their feeble souls.

 

But thou didst suffer

True oppression

From the cruel

And powerful,

And meekly endured

A painful illness

At the end of life.

Wherefore, thou art blessed.

 

Deep within the woods

Of Brie Thou livest still,

Tallest, most queenly

Of those many trees,

Wonderful haven,

Whose branches below

Droop down, heavy with fruit

To strengthen the faint.

Above them, sturdy boughs

To shelter the pilgrims

Walking the perilous path

To the Kingdom of God.

Thine highest head is crowned

With shimmering,

Silver-white flowers

Shining brighter than the Moon,

In number like the stars,

Showing all the world

Thy manifold virtues.

 

O Mother Fara,

We are orphans

In this sprawling world,

Surrounded by the wolves

Of false nobility,

Masquerading

As mothers and fathers

That they may devour us.

As a true mother,

Keep us safe within

The unbreakable

Shield of thine arms

And lift us to the heavens

When the day of our departure comes.

--

Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!

Anathema to the Union!