Queen of the May

Perhaps it is Our Lady’s title of Rosa Mystica , under which we invoke her in the Litany of Loretto, that flora such powerful connection to devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary—particularly during her month of May, when flowers are abundant (especially here in Santa Rosa!). Devotions such as May Crowning, wherein Our Mother is decorated with a corona of blossoms, are endearing displays of devotion—but they are also much more when one takes into account the symbolism behind such an action:

First, by crowning the Queen of Heaven with some of the loveliest elements of creation, we proclaim her Queen of Heaven and earth, and as the Queen is always more precious than her crown, we also show that we hold her beauty in much higher esteem than even the most beautiful adornments of God’s green earth.Secondly, there is the long-standing tradition of flowers being symbolic of particular virtues (all of which Our Lady had to perfection) or pious practices. For example: lilies symbolizing purity, roses, charity; pansies thoughts of heaven, and so on.Looking at crowning the Virgin Mary during the month of May in light of the second point, particularly, one can see in the devotion the praise of her own virtues, and the desire for her to increase in the devotee the self-same virtues. Not only to increase them, but then to offer the virtue that she herself has cultivated to her Divine Son, laying the humble crown we have given her at the feet of Our Lord, as an offering of love.

As the Sisters take their turns crowning our Queen and our Mother throughout the month of May, we take to her our intentions, our hopes, our cares, and ask her to weave from the bouquet of our lives (entwined as it is with thorns and untamed brambles) into a beautiful crown for Our Spouse, Christ the King. May she also cultivate in all our souls the virtues Our Lord would like best to see growing therein, and undoing the knotted vines in our lives, bring forth the fruit of holiness: the fullness of the Life of Christ.

Mary, Queen of the May… Pray for us!

The rose in a mystery, where is it found?
Is it anything true? Does it grow upon ground? --
It was made of earth's mould but it went from men's eyes
And its place is a secret and shut in the skies.

Refrain: In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
Find me a place by thee, mother of mine.

But where was it formerly? which is the spot
That was blest in it once, though now it is not?
It is Galilee's growth: it grew at God's will
And broke into bloom upon Nazareth hill.
In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall look on thy loveliness, mother of mine.

What was its season then? how long ago?
When was the summer that saw the bud blow?
Two thousands of years are near upon past
Since its birth and its bloom and its breathing its last.
In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall keep time with thee, mother of mine.

Tell me the name now, tell me its name.
The heart guesses easily: is it the same?
Mary the Virgin, well the heart knows,
She is the mystery, she is that rose.
In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall come home to thee, mother of mine.

Is Mary the rose then? Mary the tree?
But the blossom, the blossom there, who can it be? --
Who can her rose be? It could be but one:
Christ Jesus our Lord, her God and her son.
In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
Shew me thy son, mother, mother of mine.

What was the colour of that blossom bright?
White to begin with, immaculate white.
But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood
When the rose ran in crimsonings down the cross-wood!
In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall worship His wounds with thee, mother of mine.

How many leaves had it? Five they were then,
Five like the senses and members of men;
Five is their number by nature, but now
They multiply, multiply who can tell how?
In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
Make me a leaf in thee, mother of mine.

Does it smell sweet too in that holy place?
Sweet unto God, and the sweetness is grace:
O Breath of it bathes great heaven above
In grace that is charity, grace that is love.
To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine
Draw me by charity, mother of mine.