Tis Easter morn, and Magdalen would be
With Salome and Cleophas. Oh, see,
With voices low, steps hurried, secretly
Laden with spices at the dawn of day,
Towards the Sepulchre they wend their way.
They have not sought the Mother. No; for she
Appears to sleep uninterruptedly;
And next to thought for Jesus, tenderly
For her they care. What wealth of sympathy
The heart of Woman hides, in verity.
* * *
Thus undisturbed, she from ecstasy
Awakes. When lo, that Heavenly radiancy
Seen in the Vision fills the room, and she
Looks up - that Blessed Glorious Form to see
In Flesh before her standing, lovingly.
Yes: He is risen. The tomb wherein He lay
Is empty now. The stone is rolled away;
The guards have fled, and He is here. Oh, say,
How can the Mother bear such radiancy,
Nor die for joy in that sweet ecstasy?
Low at His Feet she kneels: for scarcely she
Dare credit 'tis no vision: until He
Stoopeth to raise her gently. Verily,
New life glows through that touch, as tenderly
She gives Him smile for smile. How blest is she.
Ah, in that moment love, fidelity,
Find their reward. Oh, who is like to thee,
Woman Predestinate? Grand equally,
In sorrow and in joy. Lo, is not she
God's Own Conception from eternity?
But that still room, where in the Flesh stood He
First in His Glorified Humanity,
Alone bears witness to this ecstasy
Of pure unruffled joy. In silence, she
Her share reserves of this great Mystery.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote