From the Death of Mary

The same tall Angel who once brought the news

Of the birth to her,

Stood there, waiting for her to notice him,

And spoke: Now is the time for you to appear.

And she was frightened as then and proved herself

Again as the maid servant, deeply affirming his command.

But he was radiant and coming infinitely closer,

vanished, yet shone from her face, and called

The widely dispersed proselytizers

To gather at the house on the hill,

The house of the last supper. They arrived more heavily

And entered with fear: There she lay, stretched out

In the narrow bedstead, mysteriously bathed in

Ruin and in being chosen,

Wholly unharmed, like one who had not been used,

And listened to angelic song.

Then, when she saw them all waiting behind their candles,

she tore herself away from the surfeit of

Of the voices and with an overflowing heart yet gave away

the two dresses that she possessed,

And lifted her face to this one and that one...

(Oh origin of nameless brooks of tears).

But she settled into her weakness

And pulled the heavens down to Jerusalem

So closely, that her soul,

As it left her, only had to stretch a little:

Already he, who knew everything about her,

Lifted her into her divine nature.