The Keening of Mary

Today we Orthodox celebrate the Dormition (Falling Asleep) of the Most Blessed, Ever-Virgin Mary, Mother of God (Theotokos).

Our Roman Catholic brethren celebrate this day as The Assumption, the taking up into heaven of the Blessed Mother.

Either way one prefers to look at it, most of us will assuredly fall asleep one day, but we have the hope of being transitioned, taken up to be with Our Lord. What the Blessed Virgin Mary has become, we also have the hope to become: a Perfected Human Person in Perfect Communion with the Fullness of the Presence of God. Alleluia!

For this occasion, I share here a beautiful poem from the ancient Celtic Christian Tradition:

The Keening of Mary

Mary:   O Peter,

                O Apostle,

                  has thou seen

                  my bright love?

Peter:   I saw Him
               even now,

                 in the midst

                 of His foemen.

Mary:   Come hither,

               ye two Marys,

               and my

               bright love be

                         keening.

The

Two

Marys:   If His body be not with us,

                    sure our keene

                    had little meaning.

Mary:   Who is yonder stately Man

                  on the Tree

                  His Passion showing?

Christ:   O Mother, thine own son,

                   can it be
                   thou art not knowing?

Mary:   And is that the little son

                 whom nine months

                             I was bearing?

              And is that the little son

                 in the stall

                 I was a' caring?

              And is that the little son

                 this Mary's breast

                         was draining?

Christ:  Hush thee,

                hush thee, Mother,

                 and be not
                 so complaining.

Mary:   And is this the very hammer
                 that struck the sharp nails
                                            thro' thee?

              And this the very spear

                 that thy white side pierced

                                      and slew thee?

              And is that the crown of thorns

                 that thy beauteous head

                                             is caging?

Christ:  Hush, Mother,

                 for my sake
                 thy sorrow be assuaging.

              For thy own love's sake

                 thy cruel sorrow smother!

             The women of my keening

                are unborn yet,

                       little Mother!

             O woman, why weepest thou

                 my death that leads to pardon?

             Happy hundreds,

                today,

                shall stray through Paradise Garden.

             Hush, O Mother,

                and be not sorrowful.


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