#346 The Hymn of Juan Diego (James Matthew Wilson)

En la fiesta de la Patrona de las Américas:

(via)

 

THE HYMN OF JUAN DIEGO

Thus it is said that Juan Diego

Saw first the Aztec girl,

Her shoulders cloaked in starry mantle

Her hair dark as the merle.

 

The hill whereon she stood had been

An ancient mother’s home,

Laid low with all Tenochtitlan

When stout Cortez had come.

 

Light sprang from dull rocks at her feet

And birdsong filled the place,

While she herself eclipsed the sun,

Its blaze about her face.

 

And every color of the stones

For which the Spaniards killed

Became the turquoise and the gold

With which the sky was filled.

 

“All those who seek me, Little One,

Will have me for their mother;

And those by pride or greed estranged

Will someday call you brother.”

 

Juan begged the bishop build a church,

Received a doubtful smile;

And felt his own unworthy bones

As ignorant and vile.

 

The bishop’s jeweled servants scorned him,

Said he was telling lies.

A second time the bishop’s asked,

A second time denies.

 

Some thought to beat Juan for his words;

He found his uncle ill,

So every claim upon him led

Him to avoid her will.

 

But she met him upon the way:

“Why do you run from me?

My mantle covers you already,

And sets your uncle free.”

 

“Gather these roses in your cloak

As your land’s never seen,

Then, lay them at the holy feet,

And he’ll know what they mean.”

 

The brute crowd at the bishop’s door

Stood in his way and sneered.

They saw his breast of flowers and snatched;

The petals disappeared.

 

So, Juan Diego was let in

To stand before the throne,

To show his harvest of the rose

Where rose had never grown.

 

“I’ve done as she, the mother of God

Told me to do,” he said,

And poured out at the bishop’s feet

The bright abundant red.

 

But, as these fell, the bishop saw

Juan’s rough-stitched cloak unfold

The image of that placid queen

Ablaze with teal and gold.

 

He fell upon his knees in praise

And wept for love of her

Who on that land of rock and thorn

Her great care should confer.

 

Beneath her mantle and her banner

All those vast lands are warmed,

But what we seek in them must be

First by her love transformed.

 

And so, Diego’s cloak poured forth

Not conquest but sweet flowers

And Mary chose a tattered cloth

To first unveil her powers.