Oh, as far off my spirit watcheth thee,
How yearn I, Mother, to run after thee.
The beauty of the nature given to thee -
Though bright with God's own Splendour - tenderly,
Like warmth and light, the sad soul draws to thee.
O Mother, as I sing of days gone by
In lowly rhymes, I feel that thou art nigh:
And in thine ear I whisper, while I sigh.
Forgive me, Mother, poor and weak am I,
Nor blame me for my great temerity.
I see thee as the Creature called to be
The Pattern to all ages: so did He,
The great High-Priest, our substance take from thee,
That being compassed with infirmity,
The Sharer of all suffering He might be.
Mercy was part of His Divinity,
And overflowed His pure Humanity:
For in the School of Suffering learned He
To give our griefs a human sympathy;
And this sweet lesson did He learn with thee.
Mother of pure Compassion, thou wilt be
The first to learn the lesson perfectly:
For while thy joy is brightest, falls on thee
The revelation of a Sword, to be
The piercing of thy heart - His Destiny.
Silent and wond'ring - though the prophecy
Fill thee with awe, 'tis no new thing for thee
To read of woe in store for Him and thee.
The wonder is, though robed in secrecy,
Revealed should be the unspoken mystery.
This word of Simeon bringeth home to thee
The nearness of the Passion. Vividly,
Out from the scenes of ancient prophecy,
Darts forth an arrow, sharp and cruelly.
Lo - Sharer of that Passion thou shalt be.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote