Magnificat in the Gutter

Found a Bible in the foodbank queue,

someone left it wedged in the radiator.

Fell open to Mary’s song—

The ‘Magnificat’, they call it.

Sounds posh.

But it hit different.

Like prophetic fire packaged in a lullaby.

She’s a girl—

young,

pregnant,

shamed,

unseen by priests,

invisible to Caesar.

And still she sings.

Not soft.

Not safe.

But fierce,

like she’s seen through the lies of empire

and lived to tell the tale.

‘He has scattered the proud.’

Good.

Because the proud don’t see me.

Not the bank manager.

Not those who hoard wealth.

Not the judge who fills out the form

and moves on.

‘He brings down the mighty from their thrones.’

I’ve seen thrones—

not gold ones,

but high-rises full of profit

built on broken backs,

courtrooms where the suits smile

while we get time,

boardrooms where they hoard.

Mary’s not playing.

She’s preaching.

Like Hannah before her,

like the midwives in Egypt,

like that woman in Revelation

screaming against the Beast.

And here I am,

in a cold flat with mould on the ceiling,

shaking through another night,

and I wonder—

’Is she singing for me?’

Because if God lifts the lowly,

I qualify.

If God feeds the hungry,

my belly’s ready.

If God remembers mercy,

I’ve got a list of things

I can’t forget.

They sing this song in cathedrals—

robed choirs, golden processions.

But I think she sang it in a whisper,

mud on her sandals,

blood in her veins,

a heartbeat like revolution.

If that’s true,

then maybe

this old book

ain’t a fairy tale after all.

Maybe

it’s a manifesto

from the margins.

Maybe

God’s already here—

in the cracks,

in the cold,

in the cry of a girl

who dared to hope

in the shadow of empire.

And maybe

so can I.

- Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025