THE MOTHER.

New Zealand Tablet, 6 March 1919, Page 39

THE MOTHER.

(For the N.Z. Tablet.) The one she loves is saying Mass— How fervently she hears The rich words of that drama grand, Her Te Deum of years! Her Te Deum of anxious days, Of care, of love, of thought, The To Deum* she offers God, Who granted what she sought. Now consummated is her life. Could heart desire ought more Than see him stand in God’s own robes The little son she bore? ’Tis hard to see him for her eyes Tho’ once so young, so bright, Have long grown dim, they seem to need The rays of Heaven’s light. Her work-worn hands that once were soft, As pink as inner shells, Are hardened with the long day’s toil Of which each deep link tells; The dear, old cheeks are faintly flushed With joy, with love, with pride. Just as they bloomed when once she stood, His father’s sweet young bride. O God, but who is she to know The transport of such joy, To see the white Host raised on high To know that priest her boy ! To steal so softly to the rail— God gave her strength—'tis he Her sou who gives to her the Lord ! That this should really be! Too deeptoo strong the joy she feels For that old heart to hold, She simply feels she does not know How God her thanks be told ! Could she but frame some jewelled speech To write on page of gold— But yet the glory of her joy Would still be half untold ! Now lie Missa est —the end The pray’rs have all been said, They seek to rouse her from her trance. And find his mother dead ! Yes, in the language angels speak -She told to God her joy, To Him Who for His servant chose Her own— only boy. —Angela Hastings.