The Rich Man in his grave hath tenderly
The Sacred Corpse enfolded. Wearily,
And wan with weeping, Mary turns to be
By John protected, knowing, certainly,
That He again will rise triumphantly.
But now the Mother's heart seems broken. She
Believes, yet scarcely comprehends how He
His Sacred Word will keep: and bodily,
She is exhausted. Ah, how humanly
Doth grace, O Blessed Woman, reign in thee.
The loved Disciple leads her filially
To his own home. The wife of Zebedee
Provides her chamber, where, unbrokenly
Her prayer to God may rise, for 'tis not she
Who dreams of unguents rare, undoubtedly.
They hover round her, nathless; carefully
Change they her soiled garments: piously
Store they the Blood-besprinkled Mantle. She
As in a dream obeys them silently -
And then is left to prayer, to ecstasy.
* * *
Ah, who may tell, sweet Mother, what would be
The Vision wondrous of that ecstasy.
How, clothed in splendour He would shine on thee
When, rapt in Spirit thou wouldst instantly
Into the nether caves of Limbo, flee.
Ah, is not Joseph all transcendently
Waiting upon the Lord? Dost thou not see
Adam in patriarchal dignity;
Noe, who should Earth's Second Father be;
And David with the harp and psaltery?
And Warriors, Prophets, Seers, who gloriously
Pass in procession? while thy tutored eye
Of each one scans the special dignity,
Whose words and Spirit had in days gone by
The Virgin's Son proclaimed in prophecy?
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote