Mary At The Foot Of The Cross Poem by James Mullaney

When Mary swayed beneath that tree, she owned
the purest spirit mauled by purest spite
that wherefrom ever mournful music moaned;
and the gift - or the curse - of omnisight.
Milleniums pressed to a breathless flash
like phantom pharaohs in Egyptian tombs;
and history's telos burst like the plash
of molten meteors' demonic plumes
in Mary's gaze. 'Woman, behold your son.'
'Behold, your mother.' A reciprocal
seeing, then, settles the world's salvation -
hers the universal, ours the local.
From focal points in heaven and on earth
the rood in Mary's eyes makes fortunesworth.