She had twelve stars for diadem;
She had for footstool the full moon;
Her quiet eyes, outshining them,
Kept memories of the night and noon
And the still moms at Nazareth
When in her arms the Child drew breath.

So safe, so warm, He slept by her,
In her enfolding arms at peace,
Her milky babe, little and dear;
And yet the Tree that should be His
Grew in the forest, wide and high,
Whose branches should fill all the sky.

He made twelve stars into her crown
And set the moon below her feet.
He was King in Jerusalem Town,
With twelve spines for His Coronet
To pierce the brain and blood and bone,
Were made for Man's Redemption.

Oh, when she answered Gabriel
With 'Be it done!' could she foresee
The high pangs that she took as well?
With Bethlehem should be Calvary?
Or was that moment of high bliss
Born with sharp pangs, fierce agonies?

Hath she beneath her Crown of Stars
Remembrance of the thorns wherewith
Her people crowned her Son? What scars,
Redder than roses in a wreath,
Doth she wear in a coronal
Under the lights that rise and fall?