With Hands She Could Not See

For Mothers Who Have Tasted Loss

 We know that Mary was more blest  
 Than any mother — gave her breast  
 To give him life who gave her breath  
 And with his life chose, freely, death.  

 We know what Mary pondered when  
 She saw him, unlike other men,  
 Without a single flaw. “I am  
 The mother of a spotless Lamb.”  

 The words of Simeon were etched  
 Deep in her soul, nor could be stretched  
 To lose their sting, as if the sword  
 He prophesied did not accord  

 With her worst dreams. “This child is set  
 To heal and wound the world. And yet,  
 Not he alone, but you the toll  
 Must pay. A sword will pierce your soul.”  

 And so it was. With every blow,  
 She tasted the prophetic woe.  
 And then, before he said, “I thirst,”  
 And she would now behold the worst,  

 The Lord looked down and said to her,  
 “From this day, woman, I confer  
 On John, my most beloved friend,  
 The first-born duty: to attend  

 To every need you have. Now take  
 Him as your son. Do not forsake  
 His path. For I will show him things  
 That heal your pain, and give you wings.”  

                * * *

 Come, mother of our children, look!  
 His cross is more than pain. He took  
 Her fear. He carried her when he   
 Was gone, with hands she could not see.  

 Will not this same all-caring Son  
 Look down, when his great work is done,  
 And say to mothers at his cross,  
 “I bear, and will repay, your loss”?  

More for Mother’s Day