Advent 3: Wednesday
7:00 AM
Prophets
by Anne Porter
| Once in the Advent season | They scraped up all the ashes |
| When I was walking down | And with them decorated |
| A narrow street | Each other’s faces |
| . | . |
| I met a flock of children | Then they ran back to me |
| Who all came running up to me | And stood |
| Saying that they were prophets | In a circle ‘round me |
| And for a penny they | . |
| Would prophesy | We stood that way |
| . | In a solemn silence |
| I gave them each a penny | Until |
| . | One of the children spoke |
| They started out | . |
| By rummaging in trash-cans | It was the prophecy! |
| Until they found | . |
| A ragged piece of silk | He said that long before |
| . | The pear tree blossoms |
| It’s blue, they said | Or sparrows in the hedges |
| Blue is a holy color | Begin to sing |
| Blue is the color that | . |
| The mountains are | A Child will be our King. |
| When they are far away | |
| . | |
| They laid the rag | |
| On a small fire | |
| Of newspaper and shavings | |
| And burned it in the street |
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