MARY
Winds blow His lines of Grace above the ground.
His gift soars by, dust flies into these eyes
Which grimey hands like mine cannot scrape out
But comes a tender of the earth in white,
Who asks me why I weep until I’m weak,
Giving me his cloak, which I dread I’ll taint.
I wipe my eyes, asking if he had seen
The Lord of mine, for Whom I sought in vain.
And why does he remain? This gardener
Wearing garments like these, so pure, so clean
With strong scents of medicinal myrrh,
Stays to console me, diminish my grief,
Reminding me of a Man in mem’ry
Who comes to life when he says, “Mary.”
15
BAYLEY BULLETIN, JUN-AUG 2016
