In the Heart of Mary

MOTHER of Sorrows, I —
But my Babe is on my breast:
He resteth quiet there
Who bringeth the weary rest;
He lieth calm and still
Who bringeth the troubled peace,
Who openeth prison doors
And giveth the sad release ;
For there reacheth Him yet no sound,
No echo of cry or moan.
To-day, little Son, little Son,
To-day Thou art all my own.
Mother of Sorrows, I —
But His head is on my breast.
I know that the morrows come,
With dread and fear oppressed,
When He who feedeth the birds,
Who heareth the ravens’ cry,
Who giveth the sparrows nests
And marks them when they die,
Shall wander, weary and sad,
With no place to lay His head;
But to-day, little Son, little Son
To-day my heart’s Thy bed.
Mother of Sorrows, I —
For I know in the days to come
He shall stand, a Paschal Lamb,
Before His shearers dumb:
Despised and rejected of men,
Acquainted with sorrow and grief,
Stricken, smitten of God,
And bruised for the world’s relief ;
With visage marred and worn,
He shall tread the winepress alone ; ,
But to-day, little Son, little Son,
To-day Thou art all my own.
Mother of Sorrows, I —
And the sword shall pierce my heart;
But to-day I hold Him close
From the cruel world apart.
It waits with smiting and gibes,
With scourging and hatred and scorn,
With hyssop and wormwood and gall,
The cross and the crown of thorn;
The nations shall watch Him die,
Lifted up on the tree ;
But to-day, little Son, little Son,
To-day Thou art safe with me.
Annie Johnson Flint.