Elizabeth, filled with the Holy Spirit,
cried out in a loud voice and said,
“Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb.
And how does this happen to me,
that the mother of my Lord should come to me?”
—Luke 1:39-56
Who am I, that the mother of my Lord,
the tabernacle wrought by unseen hands
in which he dwelt, by her alone adored,
would rise in haste and cross the empty lands
for one who has so long her due ignored?
Who am I, that she’d bend to my demands?
O spotless mother of the spotless lamb,
can you conceive the gravity of fears
in one who thinks the source of love will damn?
Who turns to prayer, and prayer turns into tears?
Who cannot bear God seeing what I am?
I haven’t said a rosary in years.
Yet Christ the seed was buried in your soil
and turned you to the Eden of our birth;
outside you is the sweat of our long toil.
I must return again, as earth to earth,
so take me in, O Mother, to your joys,
if there is love enough for my poor dearth.
For I have ached to feel once your embrace,
have longed to know your mantle circling me—
in truth, have longed to hide within your grace.
But he is there, too—shall I let him see?
Reveal to me, O Mother, Jesus’ face
and teach me how to whisper “Let it be.”
The Assumption of the Virgin, 1475-76, by Francesco Botticini, National Gallery of London, Photo By JoeyWhisperz – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=141565681
Kate Bluett 