 
O wondrous mother! Since the dawn of time Was ever joy, was ever grief like thine? O, highly favored in thy joy's deep flow, And favored e'en in this, thy bitterest woe! Poor was that home in simple Nazareth, Where thou, fair growing, like some silent flower, Last of a kingly line,—unknown and lowly, O desert lily,—passed thy childhood's hour. The world knew not the tender, serious maiden, Who, through deep loving years so silent grew, Filled with high thoughts and holy aspirations, Which, save thy Father, God's, no eye might view. And then it came, that message from the Highest, Such as to woman ne'er before descended; Th' almighty shadowing wings thy soul o'erspread, And with thy life the Life of worlds was blended. What visions, then, of future glory filled thee, Mother of King and kingdom yet unknown— Mother, fulfiller of all prophecy, Which through dim ages wondering seers had shown! Well did thy dark eye kindle, thy deep soul Rise into billows, and thy heart rejoice; Then woke the poet's fire, the prophet's song Tuned with strange, burning words thy timid voice. Then in dark contrast came the lowly manger, The outcast shed, the tramp of brutal feet; Again, behold earth's learned, and her lowly, Sages and shepherds, prostrate at thy feet. Then to the temple bearing, hark! again What strange, conflicting tones of prophecy Breathe o'er the Child, foreshadowing words of joy, High triumph, and yet bitter agony. O, highly favored thou, in many an hour Spent in lone musing with thy wondrous Son, When thou didst gaze into that glorious eye, And hold that mighty hand within thy own. Blessed through those thirty years, when in thy dwelling He lived a God disguised, with unknown power, And thou, his sole adorer,—his best love,— Trusting, revering, waitedst for his hour. Blessed in that hour, when called by opening heaven With cloud, and voice, and the baptizing flame, Up from the Jordan walked th' acknowledged stranger, And awe-struck crowds grew silent as he came. Blessed, when full of grace, with glory crowned, He from both hands almighty favors poured, And, though he had not where to lay his head, Brought to his feet alike the slave and lord. Crowds followed; thousands shouted, "Lo, our King!" Fast beat thy heart; now, now the hour draws nigh: Behold the crown—the throne! the nations bend. Ah, no! fond mother, no! behold him die. Now by that cross thou tak'st thy final station, And shar'st the last dark trial of thy Son; Not with weak tears or woman's lamentation, But with high, silent anguish, like his own. Hail, highly favored, even in this deep passion, Hail, in this bitter anguish—thou art blest— Blest in the holy power with him to suffer Those deep death pangs that lead to higher rest. All now is darkness; and in that deep stillness The God-man wrestles with that mighty woe; Hark to that cry, the rock of ages rending— "'Tis finished!" Mother, all is glory now! By sufferings mighty as his mighty soul Hath the Jehovah risen—forever blest; And through all ages must his heart-beloved Through the same baptism enter the same rest. |
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