by Torsten Schwanke
Mary, of Magdalo, a castle fair,
Was born to nobles, lineage rare and rare.
Of kings descended, Cyrus was her sire,
Eucharis her mother, famed and higher.
With Lazarus, her brother, brave and strong,
And Martha wise, they held possessions long:
The hold of Magdalo, two miles from Nazareth,
Bethany beside Jerusalem’s breadth.
They owned, as well, a part of that great town,
And split their wealth as fortune handed down.
So Mary claimed the castle by the sea,
And thus was called Magdalene rightfully.
To Lazarus fell part of Zion’s land,
While Martha ruled where Bethany did stand.
But Mary, drawn to pleasures of the flesh,
Let wanton joys her youthful soul enmesh.
While Lazarus pursued the knightly way,
And Martha wisely held their wealth at bay.
She fed the poor and cared for every guest,
And ruled the lands with courage and with zest.
Yet after Christ ascended to the skies,
They sold it all, with tears in earnest eyes,
And laid their riches down in holy grace,
Before the apostles, at the sacred place.
When Magdalene in riches did abound,
With pleasures all her lavish life was crowned.
For wealth and beauty hand in hand do go,
And where they shine, the vanities will grow.
So steeped in joy, her body she resigned
To lustful dreams, and pleasures unconfined.
Thus from her name the right was torn away,
And “sinner” was the word the world would say.
But when the Lord through Galilee did preach,
Her heart was stirred, as grace began to reach.
Into the house of Simon, stricken, sore,
She came and stood in silence at the door.
Ashamed to face the good, the just, the wise,
She knelt and wept with ever-streaming eyes.
She kissed his feet with reverent, trembling breath,
And wiped them with her hair, and mourned her death.
She brought rich ointments, precious, pure, and rare,
To soothe the dust the Savior's feet did bear.
For in those lands where suns relentless shine,
The balm of oils was comfort near divine.
Then Simon judged, and doubted in his pride:
“If he were prophet, she'd be cast aside.”
But Christ rebuked him, patient, wise, and still,
And praised the woman’s tears, her love, her will.
He said her sins, though many, were forgiven—
Her penance sweet, her heart redeemed by heaven.
And this was she—blessed Mary, pure and true—
To whom the Lord such wondrous mercy drew.
He cast from her seven devils, dark and grim,
And drew her close, beloved, adored by him.
He made her friend and hostess on the way,
Her presence graced his footsteps day by day.
When Pharisees accused her soul as vile,
He turned and met their scorn with gentle smile.
When Martha claimed her idle, Christ defended,
When Judas scorned her gifts, the Lord amended.
He saw her weep—and weeping, shared her pain;
No tear of hers was ever shed in vain.
For love of her, he raised up Lazarus’ frame,
Four days in death, yet living in his name.
Her sister, plagued by blood and sickly strife,
He healed and gave again the bloom of life.
And by her merit, Martha’s maid did cry
That word of praise which soared into the sky:
“Blest be the womb that bore thee, Lord divine,
And blest the breasts that gave such milk as thine!”
Though some have said that Martha spoke that word,
And not her maid—yet both were deeply stirred.
This Mary wept and washed the Savior’s feet,
And dried them with her hair in silence sweet.
She poured rich balm, more fragrant than the rose,
And did in grace a penance none oppose.
She chose the better part—at Jesus’ side
She knelt and listened, still and glorified.
She anointed him before his cross-bound fate,
And stood beneath the wood where angels wait.
She brought the spices, bold in grief and gloom,
And stayed when all had fled the sacred tomb.
To her first rose the Lord in morning’s light—
Apostle of apostles in their flight.
Now after Christ’s ascension to the skies,
When truth was scorned and saints were forced to fly,
There stood Maximin, sainted, strong, and wise,
One of the seventy the Lord did prize.
To him was Mary by Saint Peter given,
That she might serve the growing cause of heaven.
With her went Lazarus, Martha, faithful still,
Marcelle her maid, and Cedon, blind by will—
Yet touched by Christ and granted wondrous sight,
He followed them into the stormy night.
These faithful few the pagan hands did seize,
And cast them on the sea without reprise.
No sail, no helm, no oar to steer or stay—
Condemned to drift and die upon the way.
But God, who rules the tides and hears the plea,
Did guide them gently o’er the Gallic sea.
At length they reached fair Marseille’s foreign shore,
Though none would grant them food nor shelter’s door.
Before a heathen temple stood their rest,
Beneath its porch, unsheltered and unblessed.
Then Mary rose, her visage calm and bright,
Her speech like song, her eyes like morning light.
She faced the crowd who came to praise their gods,
And spoke with grace that all their faith defrauds.
She preached the Lord who walked upon the wave,
Whose love is strong, whose every wound can save.
They marveled at her words and noble mien,
At lips once kissed by Christ, now pure and clean.
If such a mouth the Savior's feet once kissed,
What holier voice could tell what they had missed?
And when they sailed a day and night full long,
A tempest rose with wind both fierce and strong.
The waves grew wild, the sky was dark with dread,
And fear and anguish on the ship were spread.
The lady, great with child and near her time,
Fell faint with pain, as rose the sea in crime.
The storm increased, the ship was tossed about,
She groaned in travail, tossed by hope and doubt.
And there, amidst the howling winds and foam,
She bore a son—yet could not journey home.
For with his birth, her soul took sudden flight,
And left her husband mourning in the night.
The child did cry and reached to find her breast,
But found no milk, no arms, no mother’s rest.
Alas, what grief! The father, sore dismayed,
Beheld the price at which his son was paid.
His joy was death, his hope was turned to loss,
And all his gain lay underneath the cross.
"O wretched man!" he cried with bitter breath,
"I begged a son, and now I taste of death.
The mother lost, the child too doomed to fade—
Who now shall nurse him, born but to be laid?"
The sailors cried: "This corpse must meet the sea,
Or else this storm shall never set us free.
While she is here, no peace shall bless our course—
She is the cause, the grave, the driving force!"
The man replied: "Oh, stay your cruel hand!
I beg you, let a moment's grace yet stand.
If not my wife, then spare the crying boy,
Whose life may live, though robbed of every joy.
Perchance she swoons, not dead, but weak with pain—
Have patience yet, she may revive again!"
And as he pled with sorrow in his voice,
The sailors spied a mountain, made their choice.
“Behold,” they cried, “a refuge from the deep!
There may we lay her down in final sleep.”
With prayers and coin, the husband begged their aid,
And so upon the shore her corpse was laid.
They sought to dig a grave within the stone,
But found the rock too hard to break or hone.
They wrapped her in a cloak with gentle care,
And left her and the child together there.
The babe lay suckling at her lifeless side,
The father wept, with none to hear or guide.
“O Mary Magdalene,” he cried in grief,
“Why came I thus to ruin, not relief?
Didst thou entreat the Lord to grant me this—
A son, whose birth should cost my wife her bliss?
No nurse remains, no food to save his breath;
Shall he too die and share his mother’s death?
To thee I gave my trust, my hope, my prayer—
Look now with pity on this deep despair!
If thou hast power, O saint of God above,
Then save this child whom none on earth can love!”
He wrapped them close, both mother and her son,
And to the ship returned, his journey done.
And when to blessed Peter he drew near,
The saint beheld him, marked the cross with cheer.
“Peace unto thee,” said Peter, “thou art blest,
Though now thy heart with sorrow is opprest.
Thy wife but sleeps, the child with her shall rest—
The Lord gives all, and He knows what is best.
He takes and gives again in sovereign grace,
And turns all tears to joy in His good place.”
Then Peter led him through Jerusalem,
And showed the paths once walked by God and Lamb—
The place where Christ had died upon the tree,
Where He arose in power and majesty.
Two years he dwelt and learned the faith divine,
And sought once more to cross the ocean’s line.
As homeward now the pilgrim turned once more,
The ship drew near that bleak and stony shore
Where once, with tears, he left his wife and son,
To winds and waves and God’s will all undone.
By grace divine they came unto the place,
And marvelled at the signs of heavenly grace.
For oft the child, preserved by powers unseen,
Was found by fishers wandering the green—
He tossed small stones into the foaming tide,
And laughed and played where once his mother died.
And when the sailors reached the rocky strand,
They saw the child, a pebble in his hand.
He fled in fear, not knowing any face,
And hid beneath the cloak in that still place.
The father, trembling, drew the mantle wide,
And saw the babe suck at his mother’s side.
Then cried he out: “O joy! O gift divine!
This son is surely Heaven’s, not just mine.
O blessed Magdalene, thy care is true—
If thou couldst save the child, restore her too!”
He spoke—and lo! The mother breathed anew,
As one from slumber waked with clearer view.
She raised her head and murmured soft and low:
“O Magdalene, what thanks to thee I owe!
Thou wert my helper in the hour of pain,
My comforter when hope and breath were vain.”
The husband knelt beside her, lost in awe:
“Dost live, dear wife? Can this be what I saw?”
She answered: “Yes, I live, and I have been
In places high, beyond all mortal scene.
For as Saint Peter showed to thee the land
Where Jesus walked and healed with gentle hand,
So Magdalene, with grace beyond compare,
Did guide my soul to wonders rich and rare.
I saw His tomb, His cross, His throne above—
And felt the depth of His redeeming love.”
She told him all he saw in equal speech,
And missed no place that faith and truth could teach.
And thus, united, husband, child, and bride,
They praised the saint who had their steps supplied.
They boarded ship and sailed to Marseilles’ gate,
And found the saint still preaching of God’s fate.
They fell before her, told what had been done,
And praised her power that saved both wife and son.
Then Maximin, with holy hands and mild,
Did bless the mother, father, and the child.
And in the name of Christ they were baptized,
Their hearts made new, their eyes with faith unprized.
They told the crowd the wonders they had seen,
And praised the Lord and blessed Saint Magdalene.
With zeal aflame, they broke each pagan shrine,
And raised up churches to the Lamb divine.
Then, with one voice, they chose for bishop’s see
The blessed Lazarus, full of charity.
Yet Mary Magdalene, with soul on fire,
Had higher thoughts, more holy to aspire.
She sought the wilderness, a lonely cave,
Far from the world, from flattery or grave.
No trees were there, nor stream, nor herby bed—
But angels brought her food and heav’nly bread.
At every hour, when church-bells would have rung,
She rose aloft by angels’ hands and sung.
Their choral songs she heard with mortal ear,
Celestial joys that banished every fear.
A priest there was, who near that region dwelled,
Desiring solitude where prayer excelled.
One day his eyes were opened from above,
And saw the angels bear her like a dove.
She rose, she sang, then gently was replaced,
While light celestial bathed her dwelling place.
He longed to know what miracle was shown,
And sought the cave, though trembling and alone.
But as he neared, his limbs grew weak with dread—
A holy fear oppressed his soul like lead.
He cried aloud: “If thou art flesh and soul,
Or angel, speak, that I may know thee whole.”
Three times he spoke, and then a voice replied—
“Draw nearer still, and truth shall not be denied.”
He came, still shaking, to that sacred ground,
And lo! he heard her speak with gentle sound:
“Know’st thou not me, the sinful one of old,
Who washed the Savior’s feet with tears untold?
Who wiped them with her hair and sought release,
And won from Him the pardon and the peace?”
Then said the priest: “Thy name is known and dear—
The Church has held thy story many a year.”
She answered: “I am she, long hid away,
For thirty years I’ve lived from light of day.
Each morning angels lift me toward the skies,
Where I behold the joy that never dies.
But now the hour is come when I must rest—
Go, tell Saint Maximin what God finds best.”
She bade him tell the saint to rise and pray
At dawn the morrow, just as broke the day.
And there, alone, within his oratory,
He’d find her soul departing to God’s glory.
The priest obeyed, and told the saint that word,
And at the hour, as all the choir-bells stirred,
Saint Maximin beheld her in that light
Where angels crowned her for her faithful fight.
He laid her in a tomb of marble white,
A shrine where pilgrims came by day and night.
And thus, through weeping, trial, storm, and grace,
Saint Magdalene found rest, her holy place.
Her deeds, her care, her wonders none forget—
Her name the Church in lasting praise hath set.
The priest beheld a voice as angels sing,
Yet saw no form, no trace of earthly thing.
He hastened then to holy Maximin,
And told him all, the voice and light within.
The saint was filled with joy and praised the Lord,
His heart inflamed, his spirit in accord.
That very hour, within his oratory,
He saw the sainted Magdalene in glory.
She stood within the choir, her soul in flight,
Lifted by angels, bathed in heav’nly light.
Two cubits high she hovered in the air,
With hands upraised in ecstasy of prayer.
St. Maximin, in awe, durst not draw near,
So bright she shone, so holy did appear.
But she, with voice both tender, firm, and mild,
Said: "Come to me, my father, I thy child."
Then as he came, as in his books we read,
So oft with angel-visits had she fed,
Her face outshone the sun’s resplendent blaze,
A fire of heaven wrapped her in its rays.
The holy Magdalene, with tearful eyes,
Received the sacrament of Christ, the prize
Of Heaven’s mercy, from the bishop’s hand,
And wept, her soul in sorrow’s sweet demand.
She stretched her body gently to the floor,
Before the altar, on the sacred floor.
Then, as her soul from earthly bonds was freed,
It soared to Heaven, where her spirit’s need
Was met with joy, in realms of endless light,
Her soul embraced by Heaven’s holy might.
And lo, from out her body there arose
A fragrance sweet, a scent of Heaven’s rose.
For seven days the air did hold this balm,
A peace that soothed, a calm, celestial calm.
St. Maximin, with care and reverent hands,
Anointed her with oil from distant lands,
Then buried her with honor, pure and deep,
And placed his own last rest by her to sleep.
Hegesippus, and Josephus too,
In ancient texts, their witness did renew,
Both tell the tale, in harmony they speak,
Of Mary Magdalene, so pure, so meek.
Josephus writes, with deep and earnest grace,
That after Christ’s ascension, in her place,
Magdalene, with burning love for Him,
Sought solace in the desert’s light and dim.
For thirty years she lived in solitude,
Her heart with Christ, in sorrow’s quiet mood.
Each day, at seven hours, the angels' flight
Lifted her soul to heaven's shining height.
But when the priest, in search of her, did come,
He found her cloistered, in a holy home.
She begged of him a robe, and he bestowed,
And with it, to the church, her footsteps flowed.
She knelt, received the holy bread and wine,
And prayed with hands united, pure, divine,
Then laid her soul to rest, in peace and grace,
While angels bore her spirit to its place.
In Charles the Great’s bright reign, the year was set,
Seven hundred seventy-one, in full debt,
Gerard, the Duke of Burgundy, did grieve,
For no heir blessed his house, no child to leave.
In alms and charity he sought to find
A blessing from the Lord, a gift divine.
He founded churches, monasteries fair,
And sought the holy relics everywhere.
To Aix, with monk and fellowship in tow,
He sent, to seek what relics they could know.
But when the monk arrived, the city lay
In ruins, wrecked by heathen’s cruel sway.
Yet, by God’s grace, the sepulchre was found,
Where Mary Magdalene’s pure bones were bound.
The marble tomb bore witness, carved with care,
Of her holy life, her rest, her sacred prayer.
By night the monk, in secret, did unseal
The tomb and took the relics, great and real.
But in the night, Saint Magdalene appeared,
Saying: "Doubt not, my son, nor be afeared.
Complete thy task, and bear them forth with pride,
For I shall be with thee, thy steps to guide."
Thus, with the relics safe, he made his way,
But when he reached the half-mile of his stay,
He could not move them, though with all his might,
Until the abbot came with monks in light.
Then, with procession, they received the prize,
And soon the Duke was blessed with child, to rise.
A knight there was, each year, with faithful heart,
To Mary Magdalene did gladly part.
To her tomb, in pilgrimage, he'd go,
And seek her blessings, peace, and grace to know.
But in a battle fierce, he met his end,
And his friends wept, with sorrow to no mend.
They said, with grief, "O why, dear saint, did thou
Allow thy servant, pure, to die, and how
Shall he depart without confession's plea,
And leave us weeping, filled with misery?"
But lo, as they lamented, in surprise,
The knight arose before their very eyes!
With trembling voice, he bade them call a priest,
And made his confession, griefs released.
He took the sacrament with heart sincere,
And then, in peace, he rested without fear.
A ship, with men and women, set to sail,
But soon it broke, and winds did rise and wail.
Among the wreck, a woman with child lay,
And saw her doom, her hope of life astray.
In terror, she did cry with fervent voice,
“O Mary Magdalene, in thee rejoice,
If thou shouldst save me from this watery grave,
My child shall live, my vow I’ll then enslave.”
And as she prayed, a woman fair did near,
With shining grace, and beauty bright, sincere.
She took the mother's chin, with tender care,
And led her safe, beyond the cruel despair.
The others perished, drowned beneath the tide,
But Mary Magdalene did bid her guide.
And when the mother, safe upon the shore,
Did bear her child, she kept her sacred vow, and more,
She took him to the convent, where he grew,
To live a life both pure and just, and true.
Some say, 'twas Mary Magdalene was wed
To John, the Evangelist, so widely spread.
But when the call came, Christ did bid him leave,
And Magdalene did feel a pain to grieve.
Her heart was vexed, her soul in sorrow laid,
For she had lost the joy of love’s sweet shade.
She gave herself to pleasures of the flesh,
Yet found no peace, her heart in sorrow fresh.
But God, in mercy, did not let her fall,
And turned her heart, to Him, the Lord of all.
He filled her with the sweetness of His grace,
And blessed her soul, her heart in His embrace.
For though He took her earthly joy away,
He gave her Heaven’s bliss, eternal day.
And John, beloved, with privilege so sweet,
Received the closeness that none else could meet.
A man, blind both, in darkness did abide,
Led to the tomb of Magdalene, with guide.
His leader spoke, “Behold, the church, so fair,”
But blind, the man could see not, unaware.
In anguish deep, he cried with fervent plea,
“O blessed Magdalene, I pray to thee,
If thou dost hear, and grace will thee bestow,
Let me, once more, thy sacred church to know.”
And lo, at once, his sight was given back,
His eyes unclouded, clear from all the black.
He saw the church, its walls, its holy light,
His heart was filled with joy and pure delight.
A man, in guilt, had written all his sins,
And placed them ‘neath the altar’s holy bins.
He prayed, with fervor, Mary Magdalene,
That she would cleanse his soul from deepest sin.
Some time passed by, and when he came again,
He found the schedule gone, without a stain.
All sins erased, as though they ne’er had been,
His soul made clean, his conscience free from sin.
With joy, he thanked the saint, so pure, so bright,
And left the altar, filled with holy light.
A man, in prison, bound by debt’s cruel chain,
In iron shackles, bore his heavy pain.
He called to Mary Magdalene, in need,
And begged her help, his suffering to heed.
One night, a fair and noble woman came,
And broke his chains, releasing him from blame.
The door she opened, and with gentle voice,
She bade him go, to make a peaceful choice.
And lo, he fled, his shackles gone for good,
Freed from his debt, and from his chains he stood.
A clerk there was, in Flanders, named Stephen,
Who lived in sin, his soul by darkness driven.
In every vice, he walked, with no remorse,
And scorned the things that could redeem his course.
Yet still, he held a deep devotion true
To Mary Magdalene, whose grace he knew.
He fasted on her vigil, humbly prayed,
And honored her, though sin still led him astray.
One day, as he did visit her tomb so fair,
He woke, half-sleeping, in a dream-like prayer.
And lo, before him, Magdalene appeared,
With two bright angels, heavenly and revered.
She gazed on him, and spoke with words of scorn,
“Stephen, why do you scorn the grace you’ve borne?
Why think my merits, prayed for with such care,
Are worthless, and your soul too lost to share?”
"Repent, arise, and with a heart contrite,
I’ll lead you back into the holy light."
At once, he felt within his soul the grace,
And turned away from sin, to find God’s face.
He joined the monastic life, pure and true,
And lived with faith, his sins at last withdrew.
And when he died, they saw Saint Mary stand,
Beside his bier, with angels in command,
And with a song, they bore his soul away,
To heaven’s bliss, where light and joy do stay.
Now let us pray to Mary Magdalene,
That through her grace, our souls may cleanse from sin.
That we, like her, in penitence may find
The peace of God, through mercy pure and kind.
O blessed saint, whose love and grace are true,
Guide us to light, and to the heavens too.
For through thy prayers, our hearts may be made whole,
And find redemption, peace, and joy for soul.
Grant us, O Mary, strength to live with grace,
And lead us, one day, to our heavenly place.
Amen.