Mother of Contemplation; who be we
To curiously search a mystery
Hallowed by adoration, silently
Offered to Him who lived and wrought for thee?
And chose a Hidden Life to lead, with thee?
Hidden it was: for in simplicity
Poor and despised and humble they must be,
Who by habitual grace would learn to be
In all things fit for suffering. So would she
Naught change of their accustomed poverty.
Oh, what a Garden of rare growth would be
The little Home of Nazareth. There we see
The Lily of the Valley modestly
Nestling therein: while Sharon's Rose is she,
Which Joseph's Lily guards unceasingly.
Their Garden, how they tend. Behold and see,
The Balm of Gilead, and the noble tree
Of Fortitude; pale Patience; Meekness; see
The Violet drooping in her Modesty,
And the wide-clustering flowers of Charity.
Here dwells the Snowdrop clothed in Chastity,
Lifting her head through winter's-snow; and see,
The Myrrh of Self-denial, whence the bee
Draws fragrant Honey. Here of Life the Tree
Of unsurpassing Durability.
This was an Eden of felicity,
Untouched by Serpent's trail, or liberty
Unsanctified: an Earthly Trinity
Reflected the Divine. How peacefully
Must they have followed out their destiny.
Oh, blest indeed the Home prepared by thee,
Virgin Immaculate, and the decree
That gave us Jesus in thy company.
But ah, beneath that calm look deep, and see -
The Shadow of the Cross awaiteth thee.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote