My Madonna

It is a sacrilege in form I fear,
To make this photograph of him and thee,
From my own sunny south sent north to me,
In all my heart my own Madonna, dear;
Yet Raphael could paint no face or brow
To make me worship it with glory lit,
Although the Holy Virgin sat for it,
As I do this, our baby's face and thou.
Though priests my worship may condemn to scorn,
I think the virgin with her mother love,
The Babe of Bethlehem, of woman born,
And later all my sins and sorrows bore,
If my great love for thee they watch above,
For it they both are pleased and love me more.