He comes, the Thorn-crowned King. His Throne doth He
Bear on His bruised limbs. Alone is He,
For of the people none are with Him. See,
On either side a recreant - wearily
Drag on the failing footsteps. Woe is me.
He knows that she is there: and tenderly
Looks in that tear-stained face: she, silently
Replies by one quick glance of sympathy -
Then joins and follows in the train, that she
May tread where He is treading. Woe is me.
Oh, passing every untold mystery
This Mystery of Godliness. Doth He
Who all the legions of the Enemy
Is bound to vanquish, unsuccessfully
Move to His Death thus ignominiously?
And hath He lived for this? For this was He
Incarnate in our flesh? Oh, can this be
An hour of triumph for the enemy?
Oh, who may deem this Son of Man is He
Who, bruised and man-forsaken, God can be?
Those horrid cries she hears, yet moveth she
With John and Magdalen unfalteringly.
She knows how He fulfils all prophecy,
And that from Him her strength proceeds. No cry
Escapes those bloodless lips. Ah, woe is me.
With wounds and all defilement, seeth she
That Holy Visage marred: yet oh, not she
May stop to cleanse it, but another, see,
Steps from her home, and kneeling, tenderly
Wipes from His Brow those signs of blasphemy.
And Mary looks her thanks all tearfully:
When, as Veronica retires, oh, see,
Imprinted is the Face Divine. Thus He
Through every age hath left a sign how He
Regards and honours Woman's fealty.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote