RUTHERFORD MCLEOD IRENE [1891-1968]
One Mother
Mary! I'm quite alone in all the world, Into such bright sharp pain of anguish hurled I cannot pray wise comfortable things; Death's plunged me deep in hell, and given me wings For terrible strange vastnesses; no hand In all this empty spirit-driven space; I stand Alone, and whimpering in my soul. I plod Among wild stars, and hide my face from God. God frightens me. He's strange. I know him not. And all my usual prayers I have forgot: But you-----you had a son-----I remember now! You are not Mary of the virgin brow! You agonized for Jesus! You went down Into the ugly depths for him. Your crown Is my crown! I've seen you in the street, Begging your way for broken bread and meat: I've seen you in trams, in shops, among old faces, Young eyes, brave lips, broad backs, in all the places
Where women work, and weep, in pain, in pride. Your hands were gnarled that held him when he died! Not the fair hands that painters give you, white And slim. You never had such hands: night And day you labored, night and day, from child To woman. You were never soft and mild, But strong-limbed, patient, brown-skinned from the sun, Deep-bosomed, brave-eyed, holy, holy One! I know you now! I seek you, Mary! Spread You compassionate skirts! I bring to you my dead! You'll know him when you see him: first of all Because he'll smile that way he did when he was small; And then his eyes! They never changed from blue To duller gray, as other children's do, But like his childish dreams he kept his eyes Vivid, and deeply clear, and visions wise. Seek for him, Mary! Bright among the ghosts Of other women's sons he'll star those hosts Of shining boys! [He always topped his class At school!] Lean forward, Mary, as they pass,
And touch him! When you see his eyes you'll weep And this him your own Jesus! Let him sleep In your deep bosom, Mary, then you'll see His lashes, how they curl, so childishly You'll weep again, and rock him on your heart As I did once, that night we had to part. He'll come to you all bloody and bemired, And very shy. If he'd come home to me I wouldn't ask the neighbors in to tea . . . He always hated crowds . . . I'd let him be . . .
And then perhaps you'll take him by the hand And comfort him from fear when he must stand Before God's dreadful throne; then, will you call That boy whose bullet made my darling fall, And take him by the other hand, and say . . . "O God, Whose Son the hands of men did slay, These are Thy children Who do take away The sins of the world . . ."
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