B. Plockhorst.
MARY AND ST. JOHN.
“I’m easily persuaded, for there is something of a savory sweetness to this grief—welcome mother of true penitence, that comes over souls, who, in imagination, follow the steps to the cross. I’ve heard that Mary followed her son from the Judgment Hall to Calvary. He moved at slow pace, and well He might; worn by months of toil for needy humanity; by watchings, teachings and the like; until now ready to drop down under the thorn-crown, the scourging and the cross. But the blessed Virgin, still a woman, still a mother, faltered by the way. Sometimes she hid her eyes from the scourging, sometimes she was pushed aside by those who knew her not, or those who knowing hated her because of her goodness. Tradition tells us she fainted several times overcome by the terrors of that sad journey through the valley. She had small strength to witness the climax of brutality when cruel hands drove the awful nails into that One she loved! The history of that dread hour has often wrung tears from stout hearts; and he who understands in any degree a mother’s heart, easily believes that she was absent when the mob raised the victim on His cross. But, mother-like, nothing could keep her from the final parting, which death brought to her and her son.
“Sorrow sharpens the language of love to a deep expressiveness; when the end was approaching, Mary and John stood side by side and near to the One, who, to them, was dearer than all. I have heard, and I believe that a sign from the Christ had hurried John away, just before His death, to bring mother to the heart that was yearning not more to give than to receive, the comforts that both needed, the assurance of undying affection. The man on the cross, stripped of all earthly except His flesh, even robbed of the tunic that Mary had made, and for which the men of war gambled, as war has often gambled for the patrimony of the King of Men, had little or nothing of earth to give, other than His rights in the hearts of mother and John.
“These were His farewell keepsakes to each. It needs no strained imagination to fathom His heart, for He opened it all in His dying cry, ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’ This was not as the cry of a victor, but that of a broken heart; not as a strong man, but typical humanity, alone, facing death as a child. The language He used then was not that usually His, it was the language of His childhood. In every syllable of that cry, one may read, I fear that God, even God, has forsaken me; but mother, my own loved mother! mother, mother, oh, my dying, human heart, leans as a babe on thy bosom!’”
“Here, here!” cried Sir Charleroy. “Quick! Take this cross of a Teutonic Knight of St. Mary; bury it when I’m gone by her grave in Gethsemane! I have praised myself as her champion, and son, and devotee. Heavens! I’m abashed by thy splendid revelation! I never have even dreamed of her glorious worth!”
“Father, my father, be calm, be calm—calm for my sake; you fright me when you so give way. Remember, we’re at the place where a wrong past ends at the right beginning.”
“Thou art my good angel, Miriamne; but, oh, it’s twice sad! I’ve been a madman half my life and a player in a farce the other half!”
“Be calm, Sir Knight, and look into the wonders of this place. Christ’s coming to earth to pardon its errings, right its wrongs, and hang unfading victory crowns on all futures. Listen: There was night when that King died, and the dead arose and went about the city, attesting the eternal fact that He was Ruler of all worlds. And it was the Feast of the New Moon at Jerusalem; the Feast of Venus at Rome; of Khem in Egypt; but the crescent was hidden.”
“I see, I see, Rhodes; Mary and Mary’s son were to come forth; all others eclipsed!”