Our Mother, whose love was the drawing of souls to their God,
Lay dying, and I was of those upon whom was bestowed
The sweetest of honour, to sit by the side of our saint,
And watch, with love-hearing, love-seeing, for token most faint
Of a wish love is quick to interpret and seek to fulfil,
From her, whose dear will, as we knew it, was one with God's will.
All strangely the fever had smitten, and hurt her, and burned,
And sad were our vigils beside her, and daylight returned
Each morning, and looked on our sorrow, for she whom we loved
Was gript in the fangs of the fever, and wildly she moved;
And the words on her dear holy lips were all strange to our ears,
Some tongue that not one of us knew; and we cried through our tears
And our anguish to Him who stood weeping by Lazarus' grave,
And prayed Him, because of His sorrow, to help her and save:
And we cried to our Lady of Grief, to His Mother most dear,
And we wept to the Saints whom we loved, that strong prayer in God's ear
Might even prevail, and our stricken beloved one arise
As of old, with His praise on her tongue, and His love in her eyes.
But not by our prayers and our tears might her healing be won,
So we kneeled in submission and prayed that His will might be done.
Then peace came upon her; the fever went out of her eyes.
And she lay as a comforted baby that blessedly lies
In the arms of the mother that loves it; and calm was her face
As she smiled on her children with all the old sweetness and grace.
The Shrift and the Unction were given her, and day after day,
The Food for the journey was brought her, and happy she lay.
And the strength of her love still enwrapt us, as calm on the height
Of her Phasge she looked on the country of love and of light.
Full often she spoke to us, tender of heart and of speech,
Whose silence much more than the words of all others could teach:
And lastly she told us the marvellous tale of her youth,
How God led her forth from her country and kin by His Truth;
And my Sisters, who chose me, unworthy, to sit in her place,
Have prayed me to write it, and so, by the help of God's grace,
I essay it. God grant that it be to the glory of Him,
Though the gold of her telling be dulled and the fine gold be dim.
We deem of her happy in rest, peace, refreshment, indeed;
Yet pray for the soul of our Mother, and pray for our need.
