O dearest Mother, let me weep with thee;
Nor do thou scorn my humble sympathy.
Ah, when I lift mine eyes to look on thee,
The Pearl of Womanhood, methinks I see
A depth all unexplored of grief in thee.
For, as the ivy twineth round the tree,
Thus, round thy God, thy nature did in thee;
So nigh wert thou that Source of Purity
That nearer, Human Nature could not be
Without a Hypostatic Unity.
Thy Guide His Word had been unceasingly;
His Presence, thy deep shelter. Ah, for thee
What other rest on earth could ever be?
What other tie exist?- Thus left to be
Alone with grief and deathless memory.
What to the soul more rending can there be
Than loss of all we love? Alone to be
In this world's wilderness of misery?
Who can replace the Chosen One? or be
A comforter in such extremity?
Yet Jesus understood it. So would He,
Who to His sorrowing ones had tenderly
Promised a Comforter, as mightily
Strengthen thy soul for separation - He
Whom never couldst thou love, as He loved thee.
Selfless, O Mother, though thou be; yet see,
This deadens not the pain. 'Twould sharper be
Because of love's transcendent purity,
For thou must live without Him. Thou must be
The Ivy, torn from its supporting Tree.
Thus muse I humanly. Yet, lo, we see
A tie existed between Him and thee
Like to none other. Though on earth thou be
And He in Heaven, yet could He stay by thee
And be thy All in All, consoling thee.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote