The womb,
brings death not life.
In it woman bears the child as a heap of stone
laid on the shoulder in the dark that will not kill
but steal the years from beneath her belly.
Through it pain -
        the death of our desire, and all we hope and live for.
From it we are born to sin,
And after face the march of age,
whose forced toil destroys the lives we cherish.
So apparent life is death.

Then seeming death is life,
and every labor suffered by our Lord
though done in silence - shouts at us,
done by noonday's dark - is our light,
toiled in mud - makes clean,
seeming loss -
          is every step upon the road to triumph.
And being for our benefit
was not done to please us,
but Him unseen.
An end in death to fill the book of life.

Yet that which seems so full is not yet done,
and that which lacks shall fill it up.

Each labor for our Lord
done misunderstanding,
half-way and slow and through despair,
yet done for him,
is the church's patient bearing of the infant Jesus.
And that which is our darkest dark
becomes his well of light within
the womb.