Yet one more glimpse, Sweet Mother, and of thee,
Lily of Eden, closed for us will be
The witness of Evangelists; will be
The story of thine earthly history
With all its joy, and all its agony.
* * *
The doors are closed. In prayer and secrecy
The little band of watchers ceaselessly
Looks up to Heaven. Not yet courageously,
But like dear children, waiting breathlessly
The Promise of the Father from on high.
And thou art in their midst, all modestly
Among the Women kneeling. Who would be
The spirit of that young community,
Mother of Jesus, if 'twere not for thee,
The Spirit's Spouse of their expectancy?
For while they pray, lo, all unconsciously
Thy gentle face recalls the days gone by;
And seems to bring this longed-for Presence nigh;
The mists dispersing of uncertainty,
The pain relieving of anxiety.
The first, the last time art thou called to be
His living Shadow to His Own: for see,
Soon will the mist be cleared, when, verily,
Will Jesus reign in them transcendently
Whose Spirit shall have come to set them free.
Then pray, O Mother; oh, devotedly
Dost thou His Will accomplish, for by thee
In those imperfect days, alone could be
His dear Intentions prayed for perfectly
In whom His Spirit ruled ineffably.
At length He comes: those fiery Tongues will be
The Tokens of His Presence. Lo, they be
Ravished with zeal and holy ecstasy;
No longer babes, Preachers of Truth we see,
And God His Fire hath kindled, verily.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote