For him waits Mary
And waiting, weeps; her youthful eyes,
Her eyelids and her wondrous lips
Grow thin and pale.
“You are not now
As you were once, O Mary dear,
A flower fair, our source of beauty.”
Thus Joseph spoke--“Some thing most strange
Has come o’er you, my dearest daughter.
O Mary, let us go and wed
Or else without a word they’ll kill you
Upon the street but we will hide
In our oasis.”
For the trip
Sweet Mary quickly made her ready
And wept and sobbed to break her heart,
And so they go upon their way.
The old man took his newest yoke
Within a basket on his shoulders;
He wants to sell it and to buy
A kerchief new for his sweet bride
And give it to her as a present.
O righteous, rich, revered old man,
A blessing comes not from Mount Zion
But from your quiet little home
It is proclaimed to us.
If he,
The righteous, had not lent his hand,
We would be worse than slaves of slaves
And we would die.
O suffering great!
O heavy sadness of the soul,
It is not you, ye poor, I pity,
Ye blind and humble, poor in spirit,
But those who wield above their heads
The axe and hammer and who forge
New fetters. For they’ll kill and slay you,
They slay your soul and from a spring
Of blood that comes from human hearts,
They give the dogs to drink.
But where
Went that strange guest who was so evil?
He might have come and glanced e’en once
At this thrice glorious pure wedding,
A stolen wedding!
Not a sound
Of him or of his great Messiah
But men wait something and they wait
What they don’t know.
O Mary dear,
What art Thou waiting in Thy sorrow
And what wilt Thou await from God
And from His people?
Wait for naught
And likewise do not think of waiting
For that apostle. Thou art taken
As bride by that poor carpenter
Into his poor and humble home.
Pray and give thanks, he did not spurn Thee
And did not cast Thee on the street
Or Thou mightst have been stoned to death,
Hadst Thou not hid or fled away.
But men said in Jerusalem
Beneath their breath, who had come down
From out Tiberias’ city
That there the men had crucified
One who proclaimed a new Messiah.
“Can it be he?,” exclaimed sweet Mary,
And joyfully she made her way
To Nazareth.
He too was glad
That his dear servant bore in her
The righteous seed of a good man
Who lost his life for liberty.
They go from there upon their way,
They come back home and there they live
As married but unhappy too.
The carpenter now sets himself
To make a cradle while she sits,
Sweet Mary the immaculate,
Beside the window and she looks
Into the fields and sews apace
Upon a little infant shirt.--
For whom is it?