a mother's lament

Irish Jesuit Province

A Mother's LamentAuthor(s): Alice GillSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 41, No. 485 (Nov., 1913), pp. 600-602Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20503476 .

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$600 THE IRISH MONTHL Y

the thought of him she gathered patience, and prayed for strength; and other teachers with obstinate individuals would often send them in disgrace to Mary's class to see what she could do with them. And generally she won them over, and

when she did so she thanked God for having let her know and teach " Teddy the Tartar."

M. CAHILL.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT

TWELVE years of age he was, e'en as Our Lord When in Jerusalem He once remained And taught the doctors wisdom, while His sweet And holy Mother soutght Him sorrowing; And " Wist ye not," He said, when she had found

Him, " I must be about My Father's work ? Twelve years of age he was, my boy, my one, Mine only one, when I so greatly feared That nevermore would he return to live

With me and with his father in our home; And I besought Our Lord and cried with tears Unto Our Lord's own Mother, for I knew That she would understand what 'tis to lose A boy of twelve years old-what bitter grief. And day by day I watched beside his bed And saw the nurses tend him; and he grew More fragile, weaker, till there seemed no hope And yet was hope fast-rooted in my heart.

"Surely," I said, " Our Blessed Lord will work A miracle and will restore his health." At last one nigbt I brought him to our home; But 'twas his cold, dead body, wprn with pain; And they have laid it in the earth.

And just Before he died-only about two days He said to me that gladly would he go To Heaven, to Our Lady-and I used



A MOTHER'S LAMENT 6or

Such words as I might find to hold him back And make him wish for longer life on earth. I urged him for his father's sake-not mine,

For of myself I scarcely dared to speak

"But, John," I said, " what will your father do ?' I know not how I dared to urge him so, If he should hear Our Lady call him home

To her. And then from childish lips there came Such words of wisdom that I marvelled: "Wist Ye not," he answered, " this is God's own will; And I shall help him better if I go ?" (He meant his father) and he looked quite calm

And peaceful. His round, sunburnt, boyishR face Had grown so white, so thin, so worn with pain He looked twin-brother to that lovely saint, Young Aloysius-older than my boy; Only his eyes were still the same, large, bright, And from beneath the tired and drooping lids They shone the same as ever, my John's eyes. But when I think of what he might have been If God had spared him to me-had he let

My boy stay with me till he grew a man, Just as Our Lord stayed with His Mother, then I feel that all the light, the joy, has gone,

Quite gone, from out my life. And now I ask What comfort have I any more ?

What comfort have you ? More than words can tell. Henceforth you have a foretaste and a glimpse Of Heaven, in that you know your boy, your own,

Who drew his life from you, is close to God, And there pleads for you, understands and loves

You, as he could not understand on earth, Nor love, nor pray. You asked a miracle; And, lo ! you have a greater than you sought: Your prayers were heard; and, in how short a tine, God made your boy's soul ripe for Eternity. You asked for life for him; He gives him life. With tears you called upon Our Lady; and She came and taught her heavenly wisdom-that

Which she, the while she pondered in her heart, Had learnt on earth-to your young simple boy; And he grew wise.



602 THE IRISH MONTHL Y

What comfort have you ? More Than strong imagination can present: Though with a thousand million strands of silk You should be bound and so be hea-venward drawn, Yet would you thus from all that's transient, base, And valueless on earth be less detached Than now by these unnumbered words and looks And smiles and tears and by the hopes and prayers That bind you to your son beyond the veil Your son, who holds these countless golden strands In a firm, loving grasp. Some there may be

Mothers like you-who yet are never drawn Above the myriad glittering shams of earth, Who lay up treasures here. Oh! thank Our Lord That He Himself has laid your treasure up And laid it up in Heaven.

What comfort more Does your heart long for ? A firm hope you have That Time alone-that wondrous, priceless gift By means of which we train our wayward wills Till they turn Godward-only Time and that Same wayward will can keep you from him. What ? You need more comfort ? Much you might have done Yet left undone ? Peace, peace ! 'Twas God who gave Your boy a human and imperfect mother God it is who gives you both to her, The one and only perfect Mother. Go To her, Our Lady; she will comfort you. Not all the words in all the whole, wide world, Nor all the songs that might be made and sung By all the singers here and o'er the seas Could comfort you. Go to Our Lady. She Has been, and is, a perfect mother. She Alone can fully understand your grief. And she will teach you slowly, day by day, As you can bear it, why it was she kept Her Son for thirty years and yet took yours.

ALICE GILL.



a mother's lament

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