future that none might foresee, not even the wise,
tender heart of a mother. And because he was barely
eleven years old despite the precocious strength of
his body, he laid his head eagerly down on her breast,
for he also was anxious to hold back the years because
of an undefined dread of the future.
'Enfantounet,5 she whispered, 'shall I sing you to
sleep?*
He nodded in silence, fearing that speech might
destroy this foolish yet comforting illusion.
So Marie sang him an old lullaby that had long
soothed many a Provengal cradle, and her voice was
thin but tuneful and sweet as she rocked the boy
who lay in her arms as willingly as though he were
a baby:
'Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Will you take my little son into your keeping?5
c Surely I will, for I too had a Son — but my little
Son was laid in a manger/
'Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Will you cherish my little son through his child-
hood?5
'Surely I will, for I too had a Son — but my little
Son was forced into exile.5
'Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Will you guide my son's feet in the days of his
manhood?5
'Surely I will, for I too had a Son — but my Son's
feet became terribly weary/
'Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Will you plead for my son at the hour of his
dying?5
'Surely I will, for I too had a Son — but my Son
died upon Calvary that yours might inherit
the Life Everlasting/
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