Fair as the moon by night,
And brighter than the noon-day sun,
Sweet Mary stands alone
In a flood of light.
From her creation,
From life's first, earliest vibration,
From that first feeble palpitation
Of a new life unseen, unknown,
Except by God alone,
She bore no mark of the primal curse.
No taint from any source,
No stain of sin
Wrought by herself, nor inbred and original,
Marred that sweet body, fair and virginal,
Or the pure soul within.
In this beauty of her state
She stands, the glory of her race,
Pure, holy, innocent, immaculate
And ‘Full of grace’;
In every quality of soul
A matchless, perfect whole;
In every line and feature
A faultless, though a finite creature.
In truth, 'tis easy to believe
In this exemption of Christ's holy Mother
From the birth-sin engendered by the other,
The first and guilty Eve.
It was a gift that could be given
As readily as when, at the font,
The water falls on the infant's front,
And the pardon falls from heaven.
It was a simple, unconditioned fact,
With only one party to the act.
All powerful was God to render;
Helpless, sweet Mary's soul to hinder,
Hail, Mary; from thy orient
As spotless as the snow:
And hail, the grace which did prevent
And made thee so.
There is, according to my thought,
A harder problem here, which brings
My uttermost imaginings
To naught.
When I recall that saintly life
Of Mary, Mother, Daughter, Wife;
And when I try to trace
Its golden thread,
As if the perfect web lay spread
Before my face;
When above all,
I set me to recall
Her life-long perseverance
In spotless innocence and moral beauty,
By the working of her own sweet will,
Her close adherence
To God's dear love and prayer and daily duty,
Through doubt and sorrow faithful still,
Perfect in all;
When I recall
The matchless merit
Of that sweet spirit,
Aided, indeed, by grace—but always free—
Oh then, 'tis hard for me,
All sick with error,
To master my surprise;
To lift mine eyes
From the dark mirror,
Where my own life reflected lies,
Up to that radiant zodiac
Where, like the moon in silver light
Around the darkened globe,
She moved through life in her own sweet track,
In her own white robe,
Queen of the night.
O Mary, Full of grace,
Help me, for I am weak,
To follow in thy trace.
Thy prayers, dear Mother, I bespeak.
If thou wilt plead for this,
I cannot miss
To find, some day, the home I seek.
And brighter than the noon-day sun,
Sweet Mary stands alone
In a flood of light.
From her creation,
From life's first, earliest vibration,
From that first feeble palpitation
Of a new life unseen, unknown,
Except by God alone,
She bore no mark of the primal curse.
No taint from any source,
No stain of sin
Wrought by herself, nor inbred and original,
Marred that sweet body, fair and virginal,
Or the pure soul within.
In this beauty of her state
She stands, the glory of her race,
Pure, holy, innocent, immaculate
And ‘Full of grace’;
In every quality of soul
A matchless, perfect whole;
In every line and feature
A faultless, though a finite creature.
In truth, 'tis easy to believe
In this exemption of Christ's holy Mother
From the birth-sin engendered by the other,
The first and guilty Eve.
It was a gift that could be given
As readily as when, at the font,
The water falls on the infant's front,
And the pardon falls from heaven.
It was a simple, unconditioned fact,
With only one party to the act.
All powerful was God to render;
Helpless, sweet Mary's soul to hinder,
Hail, Mary; from thy orient
As spotless as the snow:
And hail, the grace which did prevent
And made thee so.
There is, according to my thought,
A harder problem here, which brings
My uttermost imaginings
To naught.
When I recall that saintly life
Of Mary, Mother, Daughter, Wife;
And when I try to trace
Its golden thread,
As if the perfect web lay spread
Before my face;
When above all,
I set me to recall
Her life-long perseverance
In spotless innocence and moral beauty,
By the working of her own sweet will,
Her close adherence
To God's dear love and prayer and daily duty,
Through doubt and sorrow faithful still,
Perfect in all;
When I recall
The matchless merit
Of that sweet spirit,
Aided, indeed, by grace—but always free—
Oh then, 'tis hard for me,
All sick with error,
To master my surprise;
To lift mine eyes
From the dark mirror,
Where my own life reflected lies,
Up to that radiant zodiac
Where, like the moon in silver light
Around the darkened globe,
She moved through life in her own sweet track,
In her own white robe,
Queen of the night.
O Mary, Full of grace,
Help me, for I am weak,
To follow in thy trace.
Thy prayers, dear Mother, I bespeak.
If thou wilt plead for this,
I cannot miss
To find, some day, the home I seek.