One of the striking things about the Annunciation, to me at least, is that it is so much a feast of youth. Mary herself was very young, yet not so young that she could not freely and joyfully accept the tremendous trust placed in her by God. Had she witheld her consent, failed through fear or self-concern to speak the word which would allow the Word of God to take flesh in her, would not the world have grown old and cold, a sadder and a sterner place? Instead, we have this wonderful sense of springtime come again, the sin of Adam and Eve forgotten in the hope that the promised birth of a Saviour confers. Through the ages poets and painters have tried to express the beauty of the Annunciation scene. This painting by Botticelli is more austere than most, yet at its centre is a theological statement of luminous simplicity. Mary and Gabriel do not touch: their gestures mark the moment of Jesus' conception, a conception achieved without human intermediary. Mary is no longer an ordinary Jewish girl, living obscurely in Nazareth. She is the Mother of God, and Gabriel kneels before the mystery.