II.

Yes, Mother of God, though thou didst stoop to die, Death could not mar thy beauty. On thy face Nor time nor grief had wrinkle left or trace: It had but aged in God-like majesty: Mature, yet, save the mother in thine eye, As maiden-fresh as when, of all our race, Thou, first and last, wast greeted “full of grace”―― Ere thrice five years had worshipped and gone by. Mortal thy body; yet it could not know Mortality’s decay. Like sinless Eve’s, It waited but the change on Thabor shown. And when, at thy sweet will, ’twas first laid low, Untainted as a lily’s folded leaves It slept――the angels watching by the stone.