Poetry

Who weeps for Jesus at the clutch of doom?
His mother, whose face most mirrors his face.
A sword has pierced her soul, so full of grace.
The wondrous youth who ambled in the coomb
She renders to the wolvish-throated tomb.
What grief-staind mercy for our wayward race.
In her lineaments all mothers trace
The nameless shapes of loss such hurts assume.
She clasps his head to her breast, shouldering
The lifeless trunk, but the spirit is fled.
She studies Golgotha, bewildering
And otherworldly, now that Christ is dead -
Ever the crown of her long-suffering,
Ever the flag of mothers sorrow-ed.