I, Mary, unto whom the angel bore,
That wondrous, moonlit night,
On wings of light,
Message no mortal ever heard before,
Waking me from the sleep
Of maiden dreams, to weep
And smile in startled wonder—could I know
It meant such woe?
“Blessèd” the angel called me. I am blest!
Let no man dare to say
I am not, who can lay
My Holy Child’s fair head upon my breast.
He is mine own, mine own!
Let my lips make no moan
While it is theirs his brow, his lips, to kiss,
Like this—like this!
And yet—and yet—at first I did not know!
I was as others are—
A child with life afar,
A maiden dreaming in the dawn’s young glow;
And when the angel came,
Calling me by my name,
And told me what should be, I lifted up
My hands and took the cup!
Then came the slow, strange hours when in me grew
Sense of diviner things.
My soul found wings,
And from its nest on mighty pinions flew;
Sang the exulting song
That ages shall prolong—
Sang the Magnificat, and did not shrink
From the flood’s brink!
But now, O mothers, I have grown too wise!
What say the prophets old
In scriptures manifold?
A dove that hath no nest beneath the skies;
A lamb to slaughter led;
A king with uncrowned head;
A man acquaint with grief—who knows
All human woes!
Despised—rejected—and that sharper word,
Forsaken! Let me be,
Ye who would comfort me!
That word strikes deeper than a two-edged sword.
My little one, my child,
Forgive me that I smiled
When the proud Magi brought their gifts to thee
On bended knee!
Dost thou know what is coming? In thine eyes,
That seem to look afar,
Where God’s own secrets are,
There grows a kindling wonder and surprise.
Thou art mine Holy One,
Yet, though high heaven be won,
I am thy mother! Smile upon me, sweet,
Here at thy feet!