Mary…

Why do you weep?

Why do tears fall softly

when the night is deep?

Is it the memory

of an Angel's light

stepping through your doorway

one Holy night?

"Fear not, Mary,"

the messenger said,

"You will bear a Child—

though no man shared your bed."

Favor found you early,

but favor is not cheap—

for Blessings sometimes come

with rumors that creep.

They whispered in the market,

they whispered in the street:

"How can a virgin Mother

carry life so sweet?"

Mary walked through murmurs,

through doubt and disgrace,

carrying Heaven's promise

in a very fragile place.

And sometimes it makes me tremble,

tremble in my soul—

how God plants a miracle

where doubt takes control.

Mama…

Why do you cry?

Is it the memory

of a Bethlehem sky?

A stable full of straw,

a manger cold and bare,

yet the Hope of all creation

was breathing softly there.

Those little hands you held

when the world was still asleep

are the same hands stretched on a Cross

while soldiers mocked and stole their keep.

The baby that you cradled

in a Mother's gentle sleep

now hangs beneath the Heavens—

Mary… why do you weep?

You watched Him heal the blind,

watched mercy fill his speech,

yet hatred built a hill

no love could ever reach.

The crowd stood watching quietly

as darkness covered day—

some shouting for his death,

some turning eyes away.

And sometimes it makes us tremble,

tremble in our soul—

how people watch the suffering

yet never take control.

Mama…

your tears did not end there.

Your cry still echoes

in the Mother's Holy prayer.

In cities across America

where sirens break the night,

where Mothers wait at windows

until their sons are in sight.

Black mothers know well this trembling,

know this ancient cry—

when Hope walks out the doorway

and danger passes by.

They pray through unemployment,

through streets where bullets speak,

through silent bedroom battles

when despair grows very weak.

Some stand beside a casket,

some stand before a judge.

Some watch their children struggle

while civic systems will not budge.

Of the Faith and loyalty that robs

Mama cried when her boys couldn't find jobs.

She smiled when her girls left with their new "boss"

Mama didn't realize, they would be trafficked in Norcross.

The crime wasn't horrendous

But Mama screamed when she heard her boys' sentence.

On that Thursday, the phone loudly rang

Her boy was on the rail ledge

Life's "saxophone" began to sang

Mama's prayers resolved his Life's wedge.

And sometimes it makes us tremble,

tremble in our soul—

how crosses still are rising

where justice lost control.

But Mary…

listen closely—

the story did not end.

For Heaven had a morning

death could not defend.

The stone rolled from the graveyard,

the darkness lost its claim—

the child once born in scandal

rose wrapped in Holy flame.

The same Son pierced and wounded,

the same Son buried deep,

rose up with resurrection

to comfort those who weep.

So Mothers who are crying

through sorrow dark and long—

remember God still writes

a resurrection song.

Mary…

Dry your eyes.

For tears may fall on Friday,

but Sunday always rise.

And sometimes it makes me tremble…

tremble in my soul—

how God turns broken stories

into glory made whole.

— Maurice L. Calhoun

Mary stood beneath the Cross

while the evening sky grew dim,

watching nails hold Heaven’s hope

through broken flesh and limb.

The wind moved slowly through the hill,

the crowd stood loud and near,

yet no one felt the deeper wound

inside a Mother’s tear.

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain—

that rhythm has always remain.

For every Mother who births a dream

must also know its very PAIN.

Mary held Him as a child once,

pressed kisses to His head,

sang soft songs beside His crib

and warmed His tiny bed.

Happy—

when angels filled the sky with light,

when shepherds gathered near.

Happy—

when Heaven whispered through the night,

"This child will change the year."

But now—

Sad—

as soldiers gamble for His clothes,

as darkness fills the air.

Sad—

as every breath He struggles for

becomes a Mother’s prayer.

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain—

echo through the strain.

And somewhere down through centuries

another Mother feels the same.

For across the streets of history

where broken halos fall,

the Negro Mother lifts her eyes

and hears the Savior’s call.

She too has watched her children walk

through danger in the night,

has whispered prayers at doorways

for their safety in the fight.

She too has kissed a forehead

before a child stepped out the door,

not knowing if that precious face

would greet her anymore.

Mary stood on Calvary’s hill—

the Negro Mother stands still there.

Standing in every courthouse hall,

standing in every prayer.

Standing in hospital waiting rooms,

standing in midnight cries.

Standing where the world forgets

how quickly a young dream dies.

Yet both Mothers share one knowing

that sorrow cannot hide—

That love is stronger than the nails

that pierce a Mother’s pride.

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain—

still echo through the refrain.

For the Cross was not the ending,

though it carried bitter loss.

Three days later Hope arose

from the shadow of the Cross.

And every Mother who has wept

beneath a heavy sky

still carries resurrection Faith

no grave can deny.

So when the Negro Mother prays

through midnight’s darkest rain,

She whispers what Mary learned

through un-bearable pain:

"My child may suffer in this world,

yet Heaven knows his name.

And God can raise tomorrow

from today's sorrow and shame."

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain—

that rhythm still remain.

For the Mothers who have carried us

will never weep in vain.

— Maurice L. Calhoun

They wheeled her in beneath a bright light,

Where day feels like a sleepless night,

Monitors hummed a sacred tone—

A place where flesh meets the unknown.

A curtain drawn… a sacred divide,

Where fear and faith stand side by side,

A father praying, trying to see—

But hearing softly, “Don’t touch… just be.”

A young man stood with trembling grace,

Fresh resolve upon his face,

A resident—his first incision,

No seasoned hand to guide decision.

He looked at me—not bold, but real,

With honesty you cannot conceal:

“Sir… can you stand to see the cut?”

My soul said yes… my flesh said what?

Can you stand when life gets raw?

When purpose bleeds without a law?

When destiny don’t knock—just breaks

Through doors your comfort never makes?

Can you stand when love requires

A walk through surgical fires?

When blessing comes through pain so deep

It cuts the place you tried to keep?

They sliced—but not to bring her harm,

They cut to bring forth life and form,

For sometimes Heaven makes a way

Through wounds we never thought we’d pay.

The womb was opened—not destroyed,

But making room for promised joy,

And in that room of blood and breath,

God interrupted fear with life from death.

“Don’t touch me,” whispered sterile ground,

Where sacred boundaries abound,

For some things you must only see,

Not interfere with destiny.

You can’t control what God must do,

You can’t jump in and play it through,

Some miracles require still—

A surrendered heart… a yielded will.

I thought about my baggage claim,

All the pain I tried to name,

All the roads I thought were right,

But led me deep into the night.

Like riding buses I didn’t choose,

Carrying dreams I couldn’t use,

Thinking I knew the proper way—

But God said, ‘Watch what I display.’

This ain’t a show for idle eyes,

This is where the old man dies,

Where faith is tested—cut and tried,

And pride gets opened from inside.

Can you stand when God goes deep?

When He cuts what you tried to keep?

When He removes what you called ‘you’

To birth the version He made you?

Oh, I saw blood—but I saw grace,

I saw fear—but faith took place,

I saw a doctor find his call,

And God stand present through it all.

And when that baby cried out loud—

Heaven broke through every cloud,

The cut was worth what it revealed—

A living promise… fully sealed.

So now I ask, as life gets tough—

Have you truly had enough?

Enough pretending, enough disguise,

Enough of living filtered lies?

Can you stand to see the cut?

When God disrupts what you thought was ‘but’?

When He says, ‘Don’t touch—just trust Me now,

I know the when, I know the how.’

Because some blessings come concealed

In wounds that must be fully revealed,

And some new lives won’t ever start

Till God makes an incision in your heart.

So don’t flinch when Heaven moves,

Don’t resist what God improves,

And don’t reach in with fearful plea—

When He says, ‘Trust Me… don’t touch Me.’

For the cut ain’t there to take your life—

It’s there to end a deeper strife,

And what looks like loss, pain, and mess…

Might just be God birthing your best.

— Maurice L. Calhoun