Four Little Poems
Blest Mother of my Lord, I fly to thee,
Who ever hast a mother's love for me,
Who prayest ceaselessly to God for me.
Thou Queen, who givest gifts of light to me,
In joy and weariness I turn to thee,
Lifting my hands and all my heart to thee.
No love of Jesus is flame-winged like thine,
For all His overflowing Heart is thine;
My Mother Mary, make thy Jesus mine.
HENRY A. RAWES
Sometimes, in quiet mood, I fancy, He
Sweet confidence told at Mary's knee.
These childish griefs, if such He had, grew less,
Or fading out, made room for happiness.
He loved her much, and told her often, too;
And she? She pressed Him close, as mothers do.
They have brought gold and spices to my King
Incense and precious stuffs and ivory:
O holy Mother mine, what can I bring
That so my Lord may deign to look on me?
They sing a sweeter song than I can sing,
All crowned and glorified exceedingly:
I, bound on earth, weep for my trespassing,
They sing the song of love in Heaven, set free.
Then answered me my Mother, and her voice
Spake to my heart, yea answered in my heart:
"Sing, saith he to the Heavens, to earth. Rejoice:
Thou also lift thy heart to Him above:
He seeks not thine, but thee such as thou art,
For lo His banner over thee is Love."
Mother of God," some hope I find
W J. DAWSON
In that remembered word.
Thou, on whose heart the sweet child lay
Who brought thy heart the sorrow,
Didst thou not see my little son?
Didst thou not smile to greet him?
With kisses on thy mouth didst run
To welcome him and greet him?