Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Our Lady of Sorrows at the Cross

Our Lady on Calvary
New York: Macmillan, 1947.

So like a queen she moves 
among the rabble. 
The shadow of the cross 
He bears falls upon her 
through the dim day’s glow. 
Wrapped in blue, calm, 
with stately tread 
she follows close, 
close - so very close 
she feels the terrible heat 
of His tortured heart 
upon her own. 

Her shoulders shrink 
beneath her gown 
as He stumbles and falls 
and the tree sinks deep 
in open wounds. 
But no sign of pain 
mirrors in her cold 
still face; 
No gasping cry parts 
her carved, white lips. 
He is silent. 
So is she. 
But from the shaded veil 
her eyes look out 
and cry the lie 
of her unbowed head; 
and buried deep 
in her mantle folds 
her fingers hurt 
in agony.

Lady and Mother 
if only she could weep! 
But no, she is a queen, 
and queens are brave 
and full of strength, 
Even a Mother-Queen. 
Her Mother’s heart 
aches and swells 
in an unbent breast 
to lay that bloody head, 
its crown of crimson thorns removed, 
against its pillowed softness, 
to soothe those burning eyes 
with moist, light kisses; 
to fold those hands in a long caress

against her cheeks 
and pretend He is again 
her little child 
hurt in play 
and comforted to sleep 
in her arms. 
But He is a Man, 
a King 
with a task to do 
for truth 
and all that men will claim 
dear and just and beautiful 
in the days to be 
and through 

She must see Him through 
His mission well done, 
Ever Queen and Mother of God.


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