I wonder what you made, Mother,
On the day of Candlemass,
Of what old Simeon told you:
'This child is set for the fall
and rising again of many'.
You were warned, then: by a sword,
Your soul would be pierced, too.
Was this to you promised,
When you sung your fiat?
Did the angel show it to you,
When he said 'fear not'?
Or was this surprise to you,
That you were not just Ark,
but casket?
Many will say you didn't.
But I doubt. For wise you are,
And crowned with stars.
When you gazed down, to your womb,
Felt Him kick, were you shown not,
By your Spouse, hallowed Ghost,
The blade Simeon spoke of?
You must have seen. You must.
In every childish fall,
You saw the falls.
In every pair of crossed beams,
You saw His cross.
In every day,
The day that would come.
What did you see, Mother?
Not one, nor seven,
But swords a many.
Without ceasing.
Everyday, all day.
All Man’s, all ours.
My brothers’. My own.
I have mocked Thy Son.
I have betrayed Thy Son.
I have murdered Thy Son.
You knew I would,
Since Gabriel sung.
You knew I would,
When you wed the Ghost.
You watched. You watch.
The way uphill. My sins.
The bloody scourge. Our sins.
The heavy cross. My sins.
My faults. Our faults.
You knew, in your heart,
From that blessed noon.