IN whose hands, O Son of God,
Was Thy earthly Mission held?
Not in Thine, that made earth’s sod,
And the ocean as it welled
From creation to the shore;
Not in Thine, whose fingers’ lore
Checked the tide with golden bars,
Ruled the clouds and dinted stars—
Not in Thine, that made fresh leaves,
And the flourished wheat for sheaves;
Grapes that bubbled from a spring,
Where the nightingale might sing
From the blood of her wild throat;
Not in Thine that struck her note;
Maned the lion and wrought the lamb;
Breathed on clay, “Be as I am!”
And it stood before Thee fair,
Thinking, loving, furnished rare,
Like Thee, so beyond compare....

Not within Thy hands!—Behold,
By a woman’s hand unrolled
All the mystery sublime
Of Thy ableness through Time!
Thou, in precious Boyhood, knew
For Thy Father what to do;
And delayed Thyself to hear
Questions and to answer clear
To the Doctors’ chiming throng,
Thou, admired, wert set among.
Straight Thy Mission was begun,
As the Jewish Rabbis spun
Round Thy fetterless, sweet mind
Problems no one had divined.
But Thy Mother came that way,
Who had sought Thee day by day,
And her crystal voice reproved
Thy new way with Thy beloved.
In Thy wisdom-widened eyes
Throbbed a radiance of surprise:
But, Thy Mother having chidden,
Thou in Nazareth wert hidden;
And Thy Father’s Work begun
Stayed full eighteen years undone,
Till Thou camest on Thine hour,
When Thy Mother loosed Thy power
For Thy Father’s business, said,
In a murmur softly spread,
Rippling to a happy few,
“What He says unto you do!”
As the spring-time to a tree,
Sudden spring she was to Thee,
When her strange appeal began
Thy stayed Mission unto man;
Stayed but by her earlier blame,
When from three days’ woe she came;
Yet renewed when she gave sign
“Son, they have not any wine!”

Holy trust and love! She gave
For Thy sake oblation brave
Of her will, her spotless name:
Thou for her didst boldly tame
God the Word to wait on her;
God’s own Wisdom might not stir
Till her lovely voice decreed.
Thou wouldst have our hearts give heed,
And revere her lovely voice;
Wait upon her secret choice,
Stay her pleasure, as didst Thou,
With a marvel on Thy brow,
And a silence on Thy breath.
We must cherish what she saith;
As she pleadeth we must hope
For our deeds’ accepted scope,
Humble as her Heavenly Son,
Till our liberty be won.