Mourneth all Nature; lo, the Sun would be
Veiled in thick gloom: the King of Nature, He
Speaks through His works inanimate. Ah me,
How is the world obscured: oh, verily,
Men's hearts alone are cold on Calvary.
Torn with a secret anguish, darkness see,
Enters the Soul of Jesus. Crieth He:
'My God, oh, why hast Thou forsaken Me?'
Trembles the Mother's heart: if such must He
Endure, oh, truly, will not also she?
Total eclipse: lo, Nature cannot lie
Unmoved. Oh, Vision terrible which He
Hath all through life beheld. This Vision she
Now sees reflected in her soul. Ah me,
Who else hath gauged Divine obscurity?
Mother of Desolation: verily,
What swords of anguish are reserved for thee.
Yet neither dost thou swoon, nor utter cry,
All selfless, all enduring - bitterly
Weeping for woe, yet standing, stedfastly.
'Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabacthani.'
Mystical Sorrow in that rending cry:
Mystical Union answers secretly
Deep in the Mother's consciousness. Oh, why?
The winepress both must tread on Calvary.
That Cry of Dereliction answers she,
As well He knows: who knows so well as He
Whose Word had made her what she is, to be
The Counterpart of His Humanity,
The Mirror of His dolorous Entity?
The deeper desolation, agony
Of soul and body that in dying, He
Was bound to suffer, so much higher she
Was bound to rise in merit. Verily,
Nearer to Him in death she could not be.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote