  For Saturday Going After the Lost Sheep by G.K. Chesterton Our Lady went into a strange country, Our Lady, for she was ours, And had run on the little hills behind the houses And pulled small flowers; But she rose up and went into a strange country With strange thrones and powers. And there were giants in the land she walked in, Tall as their toppling towns, With heads so high in heaven, the constellations Served them for crowns; And their feet might have forded like a brook the abysses Where Babel drowns. They were girt about with the wings of morning and evening, Furled and unfurled, Round the speckled sky where our small spinning planet Like a top is twirled; And the swords they waived were the unending comets That shall end the world. And moving in innocence and in accident, She turned the face That none has ever looked on without loving On the Lords of Space; And one hailed her with her name in our country That is full of grace. Our Lady went into a strange country And they crowned her queen, For she needed never to be stayed or questioned But only seen; And they were broken down under unbearable beauty As we have been.
But ever she walked till away in the last high places, One great light shone From the pillored throne of the King of all the country Who sat thereon; And she cried aloud as she cried under the gibbet For she saw her Son. Our Lady wears a crown in a strange country, The crown He gave, But she has not forgotten to call to her old companions To call and to crave; And to hear her calling a man might arise and thunder On the doors of the grave. 
