I Met Mary

I Met Mary

I met Mary at His cross,

Her grief too great for my impose.

She trembled there in John's arms,

Her tortured spirit, a purple rose.

Her tears upon my waistcoat sleeve,

Her passioned evidentiary grief

burn lightening trails through my soul

and melt to molten my control.

Her hands upon my shoulders press,

my fear subside, my soul at rest.

I fall before Him on my knee

and pray my tearful passioned plea.

In echoes I oblige Her lead

and pray the prayer my soul perceives.

Its precious messege lent to me

to give to Him on Friday's eve.