from these breasts now dry, and he took his first steps in this garden, grasping these fingers that are now like trembling reeds.
With these selfsame hands, young and fresh then like the grapes of Lebanon, I put away his first sandals in a linen kerchief that my mother had given me. I still keep them there in that chest, beside the window.
He was my firstborn, and when he took his first step, I too took my first step. For women travel not save when led by their children.
And now they tell me he is dead by his own hand; that he flung himself from the High Rock in remorse because he had betrayed his friend Jesus of Nazareth.
I know my son is dead. But I know he betrayed no one; for he loved his kin and hated none but the Romans.
My son sought the glory of Israel, and naught but that glory was upon his lips and in his deeds.
When he met Jesus on the highway he left me to follow Him. And in my heart I knew that he was wrong to follow any man.
When he bade me farewell I told him that he was wrong, but he listened not.
Our children do not heed us; like the high tide of today, they take no counsel with the high tide of yesterday.
I beg you question me no further about my son.
I loved him and I shall love him forevermore.
If love were in the flesh I would burn it out with hot irons and be at peace. But it is in the soul, unreachable.
And now I would speak no more. Go question another woman more honoured than the mother of Judas.
Go to the mother of Jesus. The sword is in her heart also; she will tell you of me, and you will understand.
The Woman of Byblos
Weep with me, ye daughters of Ashtarte, and all ye lovers of Tamouz.
Bid your heart melt and rise and run blood-tears,
For He who was made of gold and ivory is no more.
In the dark forest the boar overcame Him,
And the tusks of the boar pierced His flesh.
Now He lies stained with the leaves of yesteryear,
And no longer shall His footsteps wake the seeds that sleep in the bosom of the spring.
His voice will not come with the dawn to my window,
And I shall be forever alone.
Weep with me, ye daughters of Ashtarte, and all ye lovers of Tamouz,
For my Belovèd has escaped me;
He who spoke as the rivers speak;
He whose voice and time were twins;
He whose mouth was a red pain made sweet;
He on whose lips gall would turn to honey.
Weep with me, daughters of Ashtarte, and ye lovers of Tamouz.
Weep with me around His bier as the stars weep,
And as the moon-petals fall upon His wounded body.
Wet with your tears the silken covers of my bed,
Where my Belovèd once lay in my dream,
And was gone away in my awakening.
I charge ye, daughters of Ashtarte, and all ye lovers of Tamouz,
Bare your breasts and weep and comfort me,
For Jesus of Nazareth is dead.
Mary Magdalene
Thirty Years Later
Once again I say that with death Jesus conquered death, and rose from the grave a spirit and a power. And He walked in our solitude and visited the gardens of our passion.
He lies not there in that cleft rock behind the stone.
We who love Him beheld Him with these our eyes which He made to see; and we touched Him with these our hands which He taught to reach forth.
I know you who believe not in Him. I was one of you, and you are many; but your number shall be diminished.
Must your break your harp and your lyre to find the music therein?
Or must you fell a tree ere you can believe it bears fruit?
You hate Jesus because someone from the North Country said He was the Son of God. But you hate one another because each of you deems himself too great to be the brother of the next man.
You hate Him because someone said He was born of a virgin, and not of man’s seed.
But you know not the mothers who go to the tomb in virginity, nor the men who go down to the grave choked with their own thirst.
You know not that the earth was given in marriage to the sun, and that earth it is who sends us forth to the mountain and the desert.
There is a gulf that yawns between those who love Him and those who hate Him, between those who believe and those who do not believe.
But when the years have bridged that gulf you shall know that He who lived in us is deathless, that He was the Son of God even as we are the children of God; that He was born of a virgin even as we are born of the husbandless earth.
It is passing strange that the earth gives not to the unbelievers the roots that would suck at her breast, nor the wings wherewith to fly high and drink, and be filled with the dews of her space.
But I know what I know, and it is enough.
A Man from Lebanon
Nineteen Centuries Afterward
Master, master singer,
Master of words unspoken,
Seven times was I born, and seven times have I died,
Since your last hasty visit and our brief welcome.
And behold I live again,
Remembering a day and a night among the hills,
When your tide lifted us up.
Thereafter many lands and many seas did I cross,
And wherever I was led by saddle or sail
Your name was prayer or argument.
Men would bless you or curse you;
The curse, a protest against failure,
The blessing, a hymn of the hunter
Who comes back from the hills
With provision for his mate.
Your friends are yet with us for comfort and support,
And your enemies also, for strength and assurance.
Your mother is with us;
I have beheld the sheen of her face in the countenance of all
