Rosa Mystica - A Poem by Hopkins

Rosa Mystica (Hopkins)

by Gerard Hopkins, S.J.

"The rose is a mystery"--where is it found?
Is it anything true? Does it grow upon the ground?
It was made of earth's mould, but it went from men's eyes,
And its place is a secret and shut in the skies.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,

Find me a place by thee, mother of mine.

But where was it formerly? Which is the spot
That was blest in it once, though now it is not?
It is Galilee's growth: it grew at God's will
And broke into bloom upon Nazareth hill.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,

I shall look on thy loveliness, mother of mine.

What was its season then? How long ago?
When was the summer that saw the bud blow?
Two thousands of years are near upon past
Since its birth and its bloom and its breathing its last.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,

I shall keep time with thee, mother of mine.

Tell me the name now, tell me its name.
The heart guesses easily: is it the same?
Mary the Virgin, well the heart knows,
She is the mystery, she is that rose.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,

I shall come home to thee, mother of mine.

Is Mary the rose then? Mary, the tree?
But the blossom, the blossom there--who can it be?
Who can her rose be? It could but be One
Christ Jesus our Lord, her God and her son.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,

Show me thy son, mother, mother of mine.

What was the colour of that blossom bright?--
White to begin with, immaculate white.
But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood
When the rose ran in crimsonings down the cross-wood!

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine

I shall worship His wounds with thee, mother of mine.

How many leaves had it?--Five they were then,
Five, like the senses and members of men;
Five is their number by nature, but now
They multiply, multiply--who can tell how?

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine

Make me a leaf in thee, mother of mine.

Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place?
Sweet unto God and the sweetness is grace:
The breath of it bathes great heaven above
In grace that is charity, grace that is love.

To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine

Draw me by charity, mother of mine.

From Carmina Mariana (Published by Burns and Oates, Limited in