And well He knew what best repose
Would bring a true relief:
He gave, each to the other, those
Who shared a common grief.
"Mother, behold thy son. O friend,
My mother take for thine."
"Ah, son, he loved thee to the end."
"Mother, what honour mine!"
Another son instead, He gave,
Her crying heart to still.
For him, He went down to the grave,
Doing his Father's will.
II.
THE WOMAN THAT CRIED IN THE CROWD.
She says within: "It is a man,
A man of mother born;
She is a woman—I am one,
Alive this holy morn."
Filled with his words that flow in light,
Her heart will break or cry:
A woman's cry bursts forth in might
Of loving agony.
"Blessed the womb, Thee, Lord, that bore!
The breast where Thou hast fed!"
Storm-like those words the silence tore,
Though words the silence bred.
He ceases, listens to the cry,
And knows from whence it springs;
A woman's heart that glad would die
For this her best of things.
Yet there is better than the birth
Of such a mighty son;
Better than know, of all the earth
Thyself the chosen one.