III.

So strange and sad the simple question seemed; As if on those far hills God’s voice had built, Upon those souls for whom his blood was spilt Some shadow rested, amid which scarce gleamed The mournful splendor by his dark Cross thrown: As if stern life grew but more hard and bare, Missing the presence of the Maiden rare Whose God made her unstained flesh his own; Who held him on her arms a helpless child, With love no mother ever knew before; Holding, when Calvary’s dread hours were o’er, The Man of Sorrows where her Babe had smiled— Her arms the cradle of the Almighty One, Her arms His spotless shroud, life’s labor done.