Her little son, her Jesus,
It was now three days since he had gone,
And sorrowing they journeyed searching.
Jerusalem is reached again,
And in the temple—there he stood,
Among the learned men,
Hearing and asking questions.
"My son," they said, "sorrowing we sought."
And he, "Wist ye not that I must be
About my Father's business?"
And Mary saw
Not Jesus, her beloved son,
But vision of the Christ, the Son of God.
How dark that hill, that Calvary!
And those three crosses
Heavy with their weight of suffering,
And there her son, her Jesus,
Feet, palms, pierced through with tortuous nails,
And in his side the thrust of hatred's spear.
Still could be heard the gentle voice,
"Father, forgive; they know not what they do."
It was now three days since he had gone.
Then came those other Marys,
And told their wondrous tale:
How they had journeyed, seeking
To do the right, accustomed thing,
To bear to him sweet spice and balm;
That as the light of early morning
Filled the sky with radiance
They had reached the place where he was laid,
But wondered at the glory of that garden,
And saw the stone already rolled away.
Then—there he stood!
And as she listened
Mary saw
Not Jesus, her beloved son,
But, in full light of recognition,
Christ, the Son of God.
