Now waitest thou, O Mary, patiently
Among thy kinsfolk come from Galilee;
So, as the days drag on, thy Heart may be
Prepared for all - retired, and wistfully
Watching the gathering tempest in the sky.
Oh, who may dare imagine thou wouldst be
Like us, weak, nervous Women? Yet, in thee
Thy bodily perfections sure would be
The cause of greater anguish far, than we
Can picture for its deep intensity.
The balance of thy Soul would truly be
The balance of thy powers corporeally.
As deepest waters flow most tranquilly,
So flowed the surface of thy entity -
Mother of Indefectibility.
Thy tears, like those of Jesus, could not be
The tears of weakness; rather, they would be
The welling-forth of Grace mysteriously
Connected with our sad humanity,
The outflow of Compassion, worthy thee.
But, tears have been thy portion copiously
In secret, day and night; for thou wouldst be
A Victim truly of Fidelity.
Not for thyself they flowed: in verity,
Woman's Sin-offering they were bound to be.
Oh, who may tell with what perfection, she,
Mother of Jesus, wept. Oh, agony:
Each separate wound that struck thy heart would be
An arrow from the shaft Divine; would be
With virtue fraught, still more ennobling thee.
Mother of holy Tears, oh, pour on me
The gift of tears for sin's malignity,
The gift of true compassion. Lo, I see
This burthen I myself have laid on thee;
And I of all, in this would follow thee.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote