To the Virgin Mary

Mother of Him we call the Christ,     No halo round thy brows we paint,     Incense and prayer we offer not,     Nor mind to title thee as saint.     And yet, no womans name, of all     With honour from the ages sent,     Mary, is aureoled like thine,     With love and grief and glory blent!     Oh wisely was it that He chose,     Who the unwritten future reads,     To teach the after-world, through thee,     What cherishers Messiah needs.     Thou heardst the angels prophecy,     The tidings which the shepherds brought,     Anna and Simeon praising God,     And sawst that star the Wise Men sought!     Ah, who of us could bear, like thee,     With meekness, Gods triumphal light;     Then, still believing, with His Charge,     At midnight take an exiles flight?     Throughout the Sons long helplessness     His good was to thine own preferred;     May we so serve; and still, like Thee,     Stand back to let His voice be heard!     Dispenser once of earthly things,     Thy Best-Beloved thou didst see;     Gods hands for others blessing-full,     Could we be poor and glad like thee?     Soul-pierced with sword-like agony,     Not felons taunt nor soldiers jest;     Beside the God-forsaken Cross,     Could drive thee from it like the rest.     Christs banner thou alone didst hold     In face of all His foes displayed;     Valiant through all defeat, and but     Heart-stricken that He was betrayed.     Ah, Mary! Could we stand, like thee,     Steadfast; and watch the vowed depart;     And grieve for their defection less     Than for the Saviours wounded heart?     How must the God, who favour set     On David once and kingly Saul,     And yet foresaw their wanderings,     And loved them through and after all     How must He seal the prophecy,     Declaring thee forever blest,     Whose whole life showed thy worthiness     Of that pure Child thine arms had pressed!     O single-hearted one to kiss     The lifeless and dishonored head,     Fondly as when its baby brow,     By angel wings was canopied!     O self-forgetful, to rejoice     For that Heavens entrance had been found     By the Beloved: thou content     Thenceforth, alone to close lifes round!     In the bright future, sure, though far,     Again, as once, the wide air rings     With praise to Christ! Thy vigil ends,     Meek daughter of a hundred kings!     Virgin, may we partake thy joy,     When Heaven and loyal earth shall lay     At the pierced feet of Davids son     A crown He will not put away!