Mother of God, oh, blame me not. For see,
As opens out thy glorious history,
My feeble voice, and feebler learning, be
Unable to embrace the Mystery
Which swells in grandeur as it shines on me.
Ah, breaking through the clouds which heresy
And Satan's craft engender, lo, we see
From time to time thy form, which graciously
Inclines to earth. Oh, surely thou must be
Never far off from those who wait on thee.
Thou sendest us thine Angels who shall be
Employed in thine untiring ministry.
Thou visitest the prisons, and for thee
No place too mean, but finds thee willingly
Present in woe and in extremity.
Thy care, Sweet Mother, laps us in a sea
Of pure compassion: thou art, verily,
All that our nature needs, and we may be
As children cradled on thy breast, when we
Our hope and confidence have placed in thee.
The blind, the halt, the deaf, they call on thee,
And thou providest for them tenderly.
Throughout all lands thy children openly
Have by their faith and love attracted thee
And to thy Shrines have run, incessantly.
And where thou art beloved, there, heresy
Can never reign triumphant. There shall be
The worship of the Church in purity;
There will the tender love of Jesus be;
And there adored the Blessed Trinity.
There to the people will the Gospel be
Proclaimed and honoured; there the poor will be
Found faithful in the midst of poverty -
They, who in hearth and home dare look to thee,
Their Life, their Hope, their Advocate to be.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote