How came it, Holy Mother, that by thee
Those days were spent in such obscurity?
Was it through anguish falling suddenly?
Or loss of confidence? or fear lest He
E'en now might leave His home in Galilee?
Or was it self-reproach? For verily,
Though all those years one thought alone would be
The main-spring of thine actions- carefully
To guard the Treasure thus confided thee,
And hide the Secret only known to thee.
Or did the natural anxiety
Which every Mother owns, o'ermaster thee?
Hadst thou to learn by fresh experience, He,
Child though He were, had yet no need of thee?
And knowing all things, lost could never be?
Unfailing was thy faith- it could not be
A moment shaken. Neither wouldst thou be
In aught inordinate; but tranquilly
The anguish bear, whilst Joseph carefully
Each step retraced - enquiring anxiously.
Mother of Stedfastness, we learn from thee
Who wert so nigh to God, that grief may be
Most poignant, even where the soul shall be
Most firmly rooted in stability -
Since Faith is Light in darkness, which shall be
Quenched in the Light of Immortality.
So when thy Sun was hid, 'twould be for thee
As though thy Heaven were closed, and painfully
Would all thy natural emotions try
To prove their rights in thy Maternity.
Thou knewest, Mother, what His Mind must be;
And had not sorrow overclouded thee,
Thou sooner wouldst have traced Him. Yet did He
Some grace abstract, that thy Authority
Throughout all ages might acknowledged be.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote