To be the mother of her Lord- What means it? This, a bleeding heart! The pang that woke at Simeon's word Worked inward, never to depart.  |
The dreadful might of sin she knew As innocence alone can know: O'er her its deadliest gloom it threw As shades lie darkest on the snow.
Yet o'er her sorrow's depth no storm With all its scars and clouds is shown: And, mellowed in that Mother's grief, At times, O Christ, we catch Thine own. Aubrey De Vere |
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Beewise we gather our wax all year From bramble sorrow and thistle tear, Briar sadness and spine of pain: Bitter flowers that bloom again! But deadest winter brings a day When thorns have lovelier bloom than May; When candles are fashioned and lit by One Who fashioned her wax to be lit by the Sun, Then watched her Candle burn: the price Of sin-consuming sacrifice. Today she shares the Flame anew To make us priest-and-victim too. |
And Mary-mothered flames and Flame |
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The Offering (A Song of Simeon) Old Man, you've sown the years | |
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Is she a leper, then, this girl That you must brand and quarantine, Proud Jew? This mother, must you hurl At her the stigma of "unclean"? Call snow impure; say that the dew Embowered in the lily's breast Needs filtering; then cry taboo On her whom ages shall call blest!  |
Not pure, is she? Not pure whom God Calls daughter, bride, mother - she, The cloister garth which no man trod, The Seraph's boast, the Cherub's glee? What need has she of priestly care Whom jealous angels sentinel? What use has she for shrift and prayer Whose heel is on the deck of hell? Was she not "holy to the Lord" When life's first gossamer thread was spun? Oh, she'll be "cleansed", oh take your word For it: All justice must be done! And do you, too literal Jew, The bargain Mary gets today? For one poor obolus or two You trade eternity away. Rich men have given all for love The last ten thousand years and odd; With the pauper's token of turtledove Mary, the village maid, buys God. Mary Immaculate: God's Mother and Mine. Eugene M. Beck S.J. Robert, Cyril. Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1946. |
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(From The Menaion) Sion, thy bridal-bower prepare To harbor Christ thy monarch there; And greet thou Mary maid, for why She is the gateway to the sky, And eke, as it is plainly shown, Is made a cherubimic throne. The King of Glory she doth seat, A cloud of light this virgin sweet, That bears the Son in flesh from far That as before the Morning-Star. Him in his arms took Simeon old. And testified to all, "Behold The Savior of the world," he saith, "This Bairn is Lord of life and death." St. Cosmas (D. 760) Thérèse, M. I Sing of a Maiden: The Mary Book of Verse. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1947. |
Why thou dost turtles bring For thy Son's offering, And rather giv'st not one lamb for another? It seems that golden shower which th'other day The forward faithful East Poured at thy feet, made haste Through some devout expence to find its way. O precious poverty, which canst appear Richer to holy eyes Than any golden prize, And sweeter art than frankincense and myrrh! Come then, that silver, which thy turtles wear Upon their wings, shall make Precious thy gift, and speak That Son of thine, like them, all pure and fair. But know that heaven will not be long in debt; No, the Eternal Dove Down from his nest above Shall come, and on thy son's dear head shall sit. |
Heaven will not have Him ransomed, heaven's law Makes no exception For lambs, and such a one Is He: a fairer Lamb heaven never saw. He must be offered, or the world is lost: The whole world's ransom lies In this great sacrifice; And He will pay its debt, whate'er it cost. Nor shall these turtles unrepayed be, These turtles which today Thy love for Him did pay: Thou ransom'dst Him, and He will ransom thee. A dear and full redemption will He give Thee and the world: this Son, And none but this alone By His own death can make His Mother live. Joseph Beaumont (1616-1699) Thérèse, M. I Sing of a Maiden: The Mary Book of Verse. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1947. |
| 'Tis not the robin I hear today, The robin with breast of red; Ah, long the day since he fled away From the fields now lying dead! 'Tis not the thrush nor the nightingale, Nor the lark that soars above; But under the eaves in the wintry gale I list to the cooing dove. O dove at rest on the rooftree high, O dove on the earth below, 'Tis little ye know what ye tell to me Of doves of the long ago! For I close my ears to the city's roar, And dream I am far away, To stand at the mighty Temple's door On the Presentation Day. And I see the Mother with tender Child A mother, yet maiden, too Who stands in the ranks of the sin defiled, As Jehovah bade her do A penny dove for a holocaust, And a penny dove for sin, Ah, cooing doves from the cages tossed, What blessedness ye win! For I see the blood of each gentle bird Poured out the stones upon, While the wondrous prophecies are heard From Anna and Simeon. Ah, Mother of God, in the Temple dim, Who seest each bleeding dove, I know thou art seeing the blood of Him, Thine own little Bird of love! |
O dove at rest on the rooftree high, |