Iii

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?