II.

Here stretched its naked arms the blessèd Rood, Whose desolation eloquent below God’s Mother sat in soundless deeps of woe, Her sad knees holding all her earthly good. Here stood the stranger with a look intent Wherein no light of recognition woke, As if he read in some strange-lettered book. Then, asking what these unguessed figures meant, An answer came: “Our Lord, dead 'neath the Cross.” “Ah! yes, and that is Mary, I suppose— The Mother.” Ah! what wondering thoughts uprose To die in silence, winning so some loss, Perchance, unto two lives. Sweet Mother, pray That soul accuse not mine on judgment day!