Jesus, Self-immolated on the Tree,
Quivering art Thou in mortal agony,
Yet ever Self-forgetting. Patiently
Beneath Thy Cross Thy Mother stands; ah me,
What grief is like to hers, thus watching Thee?
What love hath ever equalled hers? Yet she
Hath not withheld Thee from Thy destiny:
Though Thou, O Lord, from Heaven didst come, to be
A willing Victim for sin's penalty:
Her Offering art Thou; Love's Victim she.
O Soul heroic: God Himself in thee
Is imaged in thy strong maternity:
While grace supports thy Woman's entity,
Thy Soul unshaken seeks unwaveringly
That His most holy Will be done in thee.
Though thou His Mother art, God's Son is He -
Father and Mother must united be
In this dread Sacrifice; Heaven stoops to thee,
Who art the Star of our Humanity
Shining with Light from His Divinity.
Thus in the Soul of Jesus must there be
An all transcending Filial Love for thee,
Whose Life heroic practised faithfully
The Mother's own solicitude, while He
The Mirror of His Justice found in thee.
And now the end is nigh. He leaveth thee;
Before His dying gaze He seeth thee
The Mother of His Children: thou shalt be
In guerdon for thy soul's fidelity
His Helpmate in His Church, inseparably.
The loved Disciple - lo, he stands to be
The image of the faithful: then saith He
Whose Word is everlasting - tenderly -
'Woman, behold thy Son:' then, thrillingly,
'Behold thy Mother,' to Saint John saith He.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote