Still gazes Mary. Ah, what may that be?
What pains inflicted; what indignity;
What blows and bruises and revilings He
Bears from that scum of base humanity -
Fettered with chains, o'erwhelmed with blasphemy.
No one is near Him: no one dares to be
His friend, or His disciple. Verily,
Even as a Lamb before his shearers, He
Bows to the will of recreants. Ah, see
That Holy One abandoned, utterly.
Rapt in her woe-abandoned ecstasy
The Mother of Compassion stedfastly
Beholds her Son: while every mystery
Standeth in clear relief before her eye -
For her a separate wound of agony.
Deep in her understanding can she see
The causes of the picture. Verily,
Not for the Jew alone must Jesus die,
But for the Gentile too. Humanity
Is wholly lost. Behold the reason why.
The Vision changes. Herod, verily,
Should judge a prisoner from Galilee.
Behold the Purple Robe, the mockery,
The osier-sceptre. Oh, what more can be
Heaped on that Head Divine. Ah, woe is she.
She sees how Pilate wavers, and that he
Gains nothing by pusillanimity.
Throughout all time will he dishonoured be
For that dire Scourging. Oh, the Pure One see,
Covered with Blood and lashes. Woe is she.
Yet one more scene. The Vision changes. See,
Clothed with the Purple, crowned with Thorns is He,
Bearing the reed for Sceptre. 'Look, and see
Your King, O Jewish people. This is He -
Behold the Man.' No more. Ah, woe is me.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote