Hanging on the cross in great suffering,

Jesus cried into the heavens:
Woman, behold your son!

Ceaselessly she beholds all,

Yet none can hold her gaze.  
Time is her filigreed looking glass.
In her reflected eyes:

Now is here.

Here is everlasting.
And here she is.

 
From outside side itself,
She beholds her son,
The son of a lover long-gone,
The son of some god.

Vastly and immaculately she sighs,

returns to her looking glass,

and reclines into all creation.