Mary, the mother of Jesus

The scent of Spring borne by air,

Makes me think of baby hair;

The ringlets turned in disarray,

The small pink feet, the hands at play.

The child I carried and watched as He grew;

The child that must die, I always knew.

The angel light told me of Heaven.

That I was blessed of all women;

That God’s Son was mine for a little while,

That I would have Him as a child.

But when he grew and became a man,

He must go and take His stand

In this world of dark and hate;

He must go and wipe the slate

Of sin clean so all could know

The goodness of God, and so His foe

Would lose the grip upon this land

That He has held since Eve first handed

The fruit to Adam, and Adam bit.

Until my son,  there was no end to it.

But still I think of thirty years;

All the joys, all the fears;

They were His like any man,

But that of course was in God’s plan.

He must feel what we all feel,

Know the burden of eating meals,

Share the hardships of heat and cold;

Learn of temptations while growing old.

Through Him God would understand

What it was to be a man.

All of this I’ve come to see,

But He is still my son to me.

How hard it will be to let Him go

When as my son I love Him so.

And how does a mother describe the loss?

How does she watch her child on the cross

Die like a criminal high in the air –

To save the ones who put Him there?

I know that when He rises from the dead

He will come not to me, but to the world instead.

He is theirs now, He is no longer mine;

For a mother lets go when she knows it is time.