The Mother
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“The Mother,” Ensign, Dec. 1982, 49

The Mother

She went unnoticed.

Amid the angry mob she was

But another witness.

Yet those who knew

Beheld a softly anguished face,

Whose sorrow raged, but silently.

A knowledge that this must be

For a time had steadied her.

And so she watched,

As, taunted, bound, and lifted high,

He stood his pain, and hers, and theirs.

She watched

The thing she could not bear to see.

For a moment

She remembered a time before;

Then, too, He was

About his Father’s business.

Yet, that time,

The parting short and painless.

This …

In new and sudden grief

She bowed her head.

Above the rabid cries of men

Her silent prayer, a plea.

Must this suffering be?

Might not a mother’s hands

Some comfort give?

The son looked down

And kindly drew her eyes to his.

She saw her answer there.

She could not ease these final steps,

And, at length, withdrew her gaze.

Her son, His Son: His will be done.

She turned and walked with John.