The month of September is dedicated in the Roman Catholic Church to remembering the sorrows of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The sorrows of Our Lady are: The Prophecy of Simeon, The Flight into Egypt, The Loss of Jesus in the Temple, The Meeting of Jesus and Mary on the Way of the Cross, The Crucifixion, The Taking Down of the Body of Jesus from the Cross, and Jesus laid in the Tomb. Our Lady’s heart was pierced with sorrow by these seven events; and these events are represented in art by arrows. By remembering these arrows, we honor Our Lady, and are filled with gratitude for the suffering she endured for our salvation. I wrote of this remembering in February of 2018 in the following:
Some days it is good to remember how much God has given to the world in the noble persons of the Blessed Virgin Mary and her son, Jesus Christ. That there was once two hearts beating on this spinning planet that beat for no other cause than to do the will of the Father, and who suffered so that man might gain eternal life, is not a cause for lamentation, shame or guilt. Rather it is cause to feel springs of unending gratitude and delight.
Old time Catholics have been accused of being morbid by meditating on the sorrows of Our Lord and of Our Lady, but it is not morbid to recall the great deeds and sacrifices of ancestors, to put up monuments to their victories, to write of them in books, and to thank them in songs and poetry. The Cross was the victory of God over sin and death.
It sounds simple and basic, but the simple things often startle when they are looked at again, and taken with a dose of gratitude. G.K. Chesterton summed up this taking a second look, and seeing with gratitude when he said (in Evening):
“Here dies another day
During which I have had eyes, ears, hands
And the great world round me;
And with tomorrow begins another.
Why am I allowed two?”
The great joy of the Christian can be felt even in the throes of the Lenten fast.
It is good to remember the sorrows of Our Lord, to meditate on the sorrows of Our Lady, and to end with the words: thank you.
So, in September, we, with the Church, say thank you to Our Lady; and tell her that we have not forgotten her, and the sacrifices she made for us. The English Catholic writer Gilbert Keith Chesterton (b. 1874- d. 1936) wrote The Towers of Time in honor of Our Lady; and Chesterton mentions Our Lady’s pierced heart in stanza five. I conclude this post with this beautiful poem:
Under what withering leprous light
The very grass as hair is grey,
Grass in the cracks of the paven courts
Of gods we graved but yesterday.
Senate, republic, empire, all
We leaned our backs on like a wall
And blessed as stron as strong and blamed as stolid–
Can it be these that waver and fall?
And what is this like a ghost returning,
A dream grown strong in the strong daylight?
The all-forsaken, the unforgotten,
The ever-behind and out of sight.
We turned our backs and our blind flesh felt it
Growing and growing, a tower in height.Ah, not alone the evil splendour
And not the insolent arms alone
Break with the ramrod, stiff and brittle,
The sceptre of the nordic throne;
But things of manlier renown
Reel in the wreck of throne and crown,
With tyrannous tyranny, tyrannous loyalty
Tyrannous liberty, all gone down.
(There is never a crack in the ivory tower
Or a hinge to groan in the house of gold
Or a leaf of the rose in the wind to wither
And she grows young as the world grows old.
A Woman clothed with the sun returning
to clothe the sun when the sun is cold.)
Ah, who had guessed that in a moment
Great Liberty that loosed the tribes,
the Republic of the young men’s battles
Grew stale and stank of old men’s bribes;
And where we watched her smile in power
A statue like a starry tower
the stone face sneers as in a nightmare
Down on a world that worms devour.
(Archaic incredible dead dawns breaking
Deep in the deserts and waste and wealds,
Where the dead cry aloud on Our Lady of Victories,
Queen of the Eagles, aloft on the shields,
And the sun is gone up on the Thundering Legion
On the roads of Rome to the Battlefields.)
Ah, who had known who had not seen
How soft and sudden on the fame
Of my most noble English ships
The sunset light of Carthage came
And the thing I never had dreamed could be
In the house of my fathers came to me
Through the sea-wall cloven, the cloud and dark,
A voice divided, a doubtful sea.
(The light is bright on the Tower of David,
The evening glows with the morning star
In the skies turned back and the days returning
She walks so near who had wandered far
And in the heart of the swords, the seven times wounded,
Was never wearied as our hearts are.)
How swift as with a fall of snow
New things grow hoary with the light.
We watch the wrinkles crawl like snakes
On the new image in our sight.
The lines that sprang up taut and bold
Sag like primordial monsters old,
Sink in the bas-reliers of fossil
And the slow earth swallows them, fold on fold,
But light are the feet on the hills of the morning
Of the lambs that leap up to the Bride of the Sun,
And swift are the birds as the butterflies flashing
And sudden as laughter the rivulets run
And sudden for ever as summer lightning
the light is bright on the world begun.
Thou wilt not break as we have broken
The towers we reared to rival Thee.
More true to England than the English
More just to freedom than the free.
O trumpet of the intolerant truth
Thou art more full of grace and ruth
For the hopes of th world than the world that made them,
The world that murdered the loves of our youth.
Thou art more kind to our dreams, Our Mother,
Than the wise that wove us the dreams for shade.
God if more good to the gods that mocked Him
Than men are good to the gods they made.
Tenderer with toys than a boy grown brutal,
Breaking the puppets with which he played.
What are the flowers the garden guards not
And how but here should dreams return?
And how on hearths made cold with ruin
the wide wind-scattered ashes burn–
What is the home of the heart set free,
And where is the nesting of liberty,
And where from the world shall the world take shelter
And man be matter, and not with Thee?
Wisdom is set in her throne of thunder,
The Mirror of Justice blinds the day–
Where are the towers that are not of the City,
Trophies and trumpetings, where are they?
Where over the maze of the world returning
The bye-ways bend to the King’s highway.(source)
~Image: Our Lady of Sorrows, source.