Psalm 44:10-18 “The daughters of kings have delighted thee in thy glory. The queen stood on thy right hand, in gilded clothing; surrounded with variety. Hearken, O daughter, and see, and incline thy ear: and forget thy people and thy father’s house. And the king shall greatly desire thy beauty; for he is the Lord thy God, and him they shall adore. And the daughters of Tyre with gifts, yea, all the rich among the people, shall entreat thy countenance. All the glory of the king’s daughter is within in golden borders, Clothed round about with varieties. After her shall virgins be brought to the king: her neighbours shall be brought to thee. They shall be brought with gladness and rejoicing: they shall be brought into the temple of the king. Instead of thy fathers, sons are born to thee: thou shalt make them princes over all the earth. They shall remember thy name throughout all generations. Therefore shall people praise thee for ever; yea, for ever and ever.”
St. Louis de Montfort: “If Jesus Christ, the Head of men, is born in her . . . the members of this Head must also be born in her by a necessary consequence . . . The Head and members are born of the same Mother.” ~from Consecration to Jesus through Mary, Fish Eaters
The English writer Gilbert Keith Chesterton (b. 1874- d. 1936) wrote a poem in which he professed his love of, and need for, Our Lady. It is titled Confessional, and is quite beautiful. The last line strikes a poignant chord as Chesterton humbly admits that his heart is a heavy load to bear. At the conclusion of the poem, the reader is left with a sense that Chesterton had made a heartfelt and childlike entreaty that Our Lady might bear the load of his heart with him. This is the essence of Catholic devotion to Our Lady: giving ourselves to Mary as our Mother, trusting in her loving care; finding life much sweeter when held by her, as Jesus was; becoming, as it were, despite being adults, little children on the throne of grace. I think you will enjoy this poem. ~SCF
Confessional by G.K. Chesterton
Now that I kneel at the throne, O Queen,
Pity and pardon me.
Much have I striven to sing the same,
Brother of beast and tree;
Yet when the stars catch me alone
Never a linnet sings-
And the blood of a man is a bitter voice
And cries for foolish things.
Not for me be the vaunt of woe;
Was not I from a boy
Vowed with the helmet and spear and spur
To the blood-red banner of joy?
A man may sing his psalms to a stone,
Pour his blood for a weed,
But the tears of a man are a sudden thing,
And come not of his creed.
Nay, but the earth is kind to me,
Though I cry for a star,
Leaves and grasses, feather and flower,
Cover the foolish scar,
Prophets and saints and seraphim
Lighten the load with song,
And the heart of a man is a heavy load
For a man to bear along.