O Mystic Cloud, bearing Divinity
Over the plains of Juda; wondrously
Thyself the Almighty beareth, and for thee
A place of safety finds. Oh, verily,
The watch is vain of the Arch-enemy.
Gained is the mountain-height from whence to see
The border Land of Egypt. Wearily
Ye look for shelter as the night draws nigh;
And Joseph searches with anxiety
For some safe cleft, or thickly spreading tree.
Meanwhile, the Mother whispers secretly
In prayer to Him who slumbers on her knee:
'Thine is the World, O Lord; we look to Thee
Thine Own to shield: what other Hope need we?
Our care art Thou, Sweet Babe - Thy care are we.'
Behold, a Cave in sight. Ah, verily,
The dwelling-place of Brigands. Joseph, he
Into the Mother's face looks up; and she
The mute enquiry answers silently
With grave assent, and calm tranquillity.
* * *
Her sweet demeanour and her dignity
All hearts have won. No fierce hostility
They show, but simple hospitality.
Each does his part, that so the weary Three
In peace may sleep, and in security.
Alas, for sorrow lurketh secretly
Within the Ark of hospitality,
Sin's prototype. Oh, dire calamity -
Wailing upon his mothers lap, they see
An Infant, seamed and scored with leprosy.
The Mother of the Healer speaks: 'Oh, see,
The water which hath washed my Babe: do ye
The Infant bathe therein.' Oh, mystery:
No sooner is her word obeyed, when see,
Cleansed is the Infant, instantaneously.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote