IN a garden at Bethany,
O Mother, Mother, Mother!
Amid the passion-flowers and olive-leaves—
His Mother—
Yet, behold, how tranquilly
She is sad and grieves,
Though her Son is gone away,
And she knows Passover Day
Will not leave her Lamb, her Child unslain!
He hath spoken to deaf ears,
All save hers, of mortal pain
And of parting, yet she has no tears....
He is gone away
With His chosen few to eat the Pasch,
Leaving in the eyes, she raised to ask,
Mute assurance He would come no more
Back to Bethany, nor Lazarus’ door.
O Mother, Mother, Mother!—
But she keeps so many things apart
In their silence, pondering them by heart;
Always she has pondered in her heart;
And it knows her Son is Son of God....
Silently she gazes where He trod
Down the valley to Jerusalem—
His Mother!
Round her birds are at their parting song
To the light that will not strike them long;
And the flowers are very gold
With the light before whose loss they fold.
Keen the song, as on each wing,
And on each rose and each rose-stem
Full the burnishing.
She hath crossed her hands around her breast,
And it seems her heart is taking rest
With some Mystery her spirit heeds....
Song of Songs the birds now chaunt,
And the lilies vaunt
How among them, white, He feeds,
Who but now hath left her—fair and white
As the lover of the Sunamite.

In the city, in an upper room,
As fair Paschal Bread He breaks and gives
Unto men His Body while He lives—
Then seeks out a Garden for His Doom.