Mary, the Christ long slain, passed silently,
Following the cildren joyously astir
Under the cedrus and the olive tree,
Pausing to let their laughter float to her.
Each voice an echo of a voice more dear,
She saw a little Christ in every face.

Then came another woman gliding near
To watch the tender life that filled the place.
And Mary sought the woman's hand, and spoke:
"I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed
With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke
Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.

I too have rocked my Lovely One,
And He was fair!
He was more lumonous than the sun,
And like it's rays through amber was
His sun bright hair.
Still I can see it shine and shine."
"Even so," the woman said, "was mine"

His ways were ever darling ways."
And Mary smiled,
"So soft, so clinging! All our days
Were jewles strung on cords of love.
My Little Child!
My vanished star! My music fled!"
"Even so was mine", the woman said

And Mary wispered,"Tell me, thou,
Of thine." And she:
"Oh, mine was rosey as a bough
Blooming with roses, and his eyes
Had lights of the sea!
His balmy fingers left a thrill
that warms me still."

Then shae gazed down some wilder, darker hour,
And said, when Mary questioned knowing not,
"Who art thou mother of so sweet a son?"
"I am the mother of Iscariot."