“The same is My mother”—The disciple

(The Saviour of the World, Vol III Book II Poem XXVII)

All his rest is on her arm;
She, his only shield from harm;
She doth his sole meat supply;
All his joy is in her eye.

Helpless, that is not his care;
A burden, she is strong to bear;
Fragile, will she not forefend?
Ailing—soft, her love shall tend.

Jesus, Saviour, Son of man,
Who camest, Infant of a span,
Was Mary Thy one Mother mild,
Or art Thou ever born a Child?

My trembling heart doth in me burn;
There, perchance, shall I discern—
Though the stall be all defiled—
The tender form of Christ the Child:

Is there One, a little One,
Who lieth sweetly as a son—
All His meat, the Father’s grace,
All His joy, the Father’s face;

Rueing not His feeble state,
Fearing not the ills that wait,
Safe, nor asking why, nor how—
Jesus, then, not I, but Thou!

Other fearsome inmates there;
Evil dragons, giant Care;
Hope, joyous, sees them led in thrall,—
This “Little One” shall rule them all.