Mother of Jesus newly born; to me
Reach forth her accents full melodiously;
List to her tender breathings; though they be
In secret whispered, yet mysteriously
Bear trophies of this speechless Mystery.
'O my Beloved, how is it to me
That I, Thy Handmaid, should Thy Mother be?
That I, Thy lowly One, should give to Thee
The Infant beauty that now greeteth me
With tears and smiles? O sweet Humanity.
'Lo, Thy Divinity I serve in Thee,
Yet Mother am of all I see in Thee,
Whose tender weakness doth depend on me:
How dare I ope the fount of milk to Thee
Who feedest all in Thy benignity.
'A Little One Thou art; but lo, in Thee
I see contained Divine Immensity:
In weakness circumscribed, behold I Thee
While all creation draws its strength from Thee.
Thy Mother am I, Lord, Who madest me.
'How shall I name Thee, Little One? I see
Mine Offspring and my Counterpart in Thee:
My Babe, my Babe - I gave Thy Flesh to Thee,
And I may call Thee mine: yet fear to be
Presuming with Thy dread Divinity.
'God's Son art Thou; humbly adore I Thee:
My Offspring Thou - Thou lookest up to me:
Oh, how I long to kiss and fondle Thee:
But Thou art God; and when I gaze on Thee
I fear to touch such endless Majesty.
'Oh, shine, Thou Light - Light that art sprung from me.
Exult Jerusalem: for thou shalt see
Him whom the prophets have foretold. Lo, He
This Child of mine, this Child of poverty,
This King of Kings, shall come and reign in thee.'
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote