132. The Prayer Of Mary, The Mother Of Our Savior.

The Prayer Of Mary, The Mother Of Our Savior. The Prayer as recorded.—Luke 1:46-55. As a part of the mysterious work of redemption, a part of the grand, the awful. and merciful plan of salvation, the mother of our blessed Lord was chosen from the humblest of earth’s children to become the “blessedest of women;” lowliest, but most glorified —chosen of heaven to guard with her love and care the helpless infancy of the Redeemer. Oh, mystery! deep and strange, “Mother, tears were mingled With thy costly blood-drops, In the shadow of the atoning cross.” And the Savior, the Captain of our salvation, the Judge of the world, the Son of God himself, was “born of a virgin;” his mother, “Mary, the poor maiden of Nazareth.” This prayer, or rather hymn, is full of poetry as well as piety and thankfulness for God’s mercy in thus choosing her from among women to be the mother of the Savior. A sweet strain in it refers to her ancestors, and that battle between Saul and David, when the “slight stripling of the mountain-fold” displaced and took the throne of the proud monarch.

It was because the Lord had regarded her low estate, it was because “He that is mighty hath done to me great things, and holy is his name.” It was all the Lord’s doing, marvelous in her eyes, and to him she gives all the glory. There are no reflections in her own mind as to the cause of this great distinction; had there been, she would have shown herself unworthy. Her thoughts go out from herself, and what he has done for her engages her soul. “It is not in me, but it is in thee,” is the burden of all her reflections. Herself a sinner, her mind contemplates the great benefit conferred on a ruined world, and she rejoices in God her Savior, in the fulfillment of the promise to Israel, and the blessing infinite to future generations. Mary’s soul is full of humility, “I am not proud—not proud;

Albeit in my flesh God sent his son, Albeit over him my head is bowed As others bow before him, still mine heart Bows lower than their knees.

O, centuries That roll in vision, your futurities My future grave athwart, Whose murmurs seem to reach me While I keep watch o’er this sleep, Say of me as the heavenly said, Thou art The blessedest of women—blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest.”

There is but little revealed to us on the sacred page regarding the youth of Jesus, and from the time we see him a babe upon his mother’s bosom, “A king without regalia, A God without the thunder, A child without the heart to play, Aye, a Creator rent asunder,” until we meet him in the temple, disputing with the learned and wise, there is silence concerning him.

Here, then, is the prayer of the mother of the Savior, a part of that “free service which is all in all to heaven,” a “voice of praise and thanksgiving” to the Great God of All for the gift of his son to a lost, a perishing world.