If Mary had
When she held her Babe's hands in her ownLittle hands that were tender and white as a rose,
All dented with dimples from finger to wrist,
Such as mothers have kissedThat one day they must feel the fierce
Of a hatred insane,
Must redden with holiest stain,
And grasp as their guerdon the boon of the bitterest pain,
Oh,
I think that her sweet, brooding
Must have blanched with its anguish of knowledge above her embrace.
But if Mary had known,
As she held her Babe's hands in her own,
What a treasure of gifts to the world they would bring;
What healing and hope to the hearts that must ache,
And without him must break;
Had she known they would pluck forth death's
And set open the
Of the close, jealous grave evermore,
Making free who were captives in sorrow and darkness before,
Oh,
I think that a gracious
Of rapture had broken across the despair of her eyes!
If Mary had
As she sat with her baby alone,
And guided so gently his bare little
To take their first steps from the throne of her knee,
How weary must
The path that for them should be meet;
And how it must
To the cross of humanity's need,
Giving hissing and shame, giving blame and reproach for its meed,
Oh,
I think that her tears would have
Those dear feet that must walk such a hard, starless way to the Rood!
But if Mary had known,
As she sat with her Baby alone,
On what errands of mercy and peace they would go,
How those footsteps would ring through the years of all
With an echo sublime,
Making holy the land of their woe,
That the pathway they
Would guide the world back to its God,
And lead ever upward away from the grasp of the clod,
She had surely forgot to be
And only remembered to be most immortally glad!
If Mary had known,
As she held him so closely, her own,
Cradling his shining, fair head on her breast,
Sunned over with ringlets as bright as the morn,
That a garland of
On that tender brow would be
Till the red drops would
Into eyes that looked out upon all,
Abrim with a pity divine over clamor and brawl,
Oh,
I think that her lullaby
Would have died on her lips into wailing impassioned and long!
But if Mary had known,
As she held him so closely, her own,
That over the darkness and pain he would be The Conqueror hailed in all oncoming days,
The world's hope and praise,
And the garland of thorn,
The symbol of mocking and scorn Would be a victorious diadem royally worn,
Oh,
I think that ineffable joy Must have flooded her soul as she bent o'er her wonderful Boy!