Hannah and Mary speak from the same psychic place: a woman whose inner life has been dismissed by power, suddenly validated by a gift that also costs her. Hannah’s offering is not pious decoration; it is the hard conversion of private longing into public service. She gives up the child she fought for, and the sacrifice reads like a way to master the terror of losing by choosing loss on purpose. The temple, the calves, the flour, the wine are the language of a world where gratitude must take a visible form, but the real offering is maternal control. She turns attachment into vocation. Mary’s song is that same transformation, but it bursts into politics. The Magnificat is not a lullaby; it is the imagination of the lowly finally speaking in a register that princes can hear. Pride is named as a mental disease, “conceit of their heart,” and the reversal is framed as moral reality, not wishful thinking. The hungry are filled because hunger is the true measure of the world; the rich go away empty because emptiness is what their fullness was hiding. Read together, the texts stage a pattern: the feminine voice as the carrier of history’s correction. These women do not seize thrones; they re-describe reality until thrones look absurd. Their power is interpretive, and that is why it’s dangerous. Semina Verbi: Hannah’s vowed child and Mary’s consenting body echo Hindu bhakti offerings to a deity, where devotion is proved by relinquishment, and the Bhagavad Gita’s call to act without clinging to the fruit. Mary’s reversal of the mighty resembles the Buddhist critique of grasping and the Zen suspicion of status, and it also sounds like the Daoist preference for the low place and the yielding over the forceful. Speculation: both songs function like a sacred version of the “status inversion” found in many traditions’ festival logic, where the social order is symbolically overturned to reveal its contingency.