With Hands She Could Not See
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”?