The time He saw you by your brother’s tomb,
I think it was your tears that made Him weep.
Perhaps they stirred a mem’ry of perfume,
Which, in its turn, evoked emotion deep.
He could not be indifferent to your pain —
To you, His loving, loyal, little friend —
While knowing, broken-hearted you’d remain
Beside His Cross until the bitter end.
The second time He found you at a grave
(And crying once again) He must have smiled.
Oh! What delight your sorrow surely gave
His Sacred Heart — rejected and reviled.
Yet, even so, these precious tears He’d route,
Dead set that you should get the better part.
He’d pour the odors of His ointment out
To fill with fragrant faith your fervent heart.
Then what was left for you to do but run?
Announcing to the world the risen Son!
Station of the cross, Saint Symphorian church of Pfettisheim, Bas-Rhin, France. XIXth century. Detail of the 13th station: Mary Magdalene weeping. Photo credit: Pethrus, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons.
