Now art thou come, O Sun-clothed Mother. Thee
The Eternal Word had promised. Lo, 'tis He
Who lieth in thy lap all tranquilly,
Knowing the heathen rage, that kings decree
His death, with hundreds, in their infancy.
Thou too art tranquil, Mother, though to thee
No secret was withheld of prophecy:
Silence becomes thy state; the grace to see
The hidden working of God's ways with thee
Lies shrouded in thy deep humility.
Thou watchest, weary Mother; yet for thee
Is rest becoming, for thy heart is free.
When lo, the startled Babe upon thy knee
Riseth anon, and mutely clings to thee
As for protection - looking unto thee.
And Joseph entering, notes the prodigy:
The Word Divine confirming, erewhile he
Had heard in slumber. Promptly must they flee
Before the face of Herod, whose decree
The morrow will declare, unpityingly.
Watcheth the Dragon, surely. Knoweth he
The secret of the heavenly Mystery
Enclosed in Virginal Maternity?
Nay; but he spieth ever, and 'tis he
Who drives the King to this impiety.
Hell-hounds be they who, baying furiously,
Are leashed against the Christ; for Devils see
Under this garb of humble poverty
More than King Herod: e'en his turpidy
Needs but the one Archdemon - Jealousy.
Feareth the Dragon. Unrelentingly
Wars he upon the Good; not knowing, he
Will quench all light lest it should prove to be
The Light foreshown. Oh, imbecility,
Thus to approach Sun-clad Virginity.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote