The Bride

Christopher Murphy

To see her now you see a woman stained

With grime of age and tears that flow unchecked.

“The Whore!” they jeer.  With jealous scorn they rained

Down blows and lies; her beauty they have wrecked.

Alas!  There is no comeliness in her,

And who can love the one despised by all?

He was hated, now hate is all for her.

And where is He that would halt her fall?

A line of heroes (for she is not alone!)

Arise to guard, with word and life and pen,

The bride.  Ignatius, Basil, and others own

Their mother’s honor to the bitter end.

On that last day, His bride He will behold

And see her wounds are jewels, her bruises gold.