I often think of a mysterious woman—

There must be somewhere a mysterious woman,

Mysterious and most marvelous of beauty,

Most beautiful,—miraculously kind,

Indeed a kindness passing understanding,

So great a kindness that it seemeth madness.

It seemeth madness, for she sallies forth

At dead of night into the dismal streets,

Into the dismal and deserted streets,

Monotously criss-crossing the city,

The monstrous, lightless, heartless, sleeping city,

Where prowling as the vermin shunning light,

Or derelicts adrift on dreary seas,

She seeks the disinherited of joy

She seeks the stunted, the disfigured children,

The starved, diseased and the discouraged children

Of stepmother society, seeks them out,

Whom everybody shuns and no one loves.

She seeks them out and gives herself to them,

This queenly woman, marvelous of beauty,

Entirely gives herself to those of whom

The thought alone makes shudder with disgust.

She gives herself even as the twilight enters

A fetid, vermin-ridden, mildewed dungeon,

A whiff of heaven in a life of hell.

Oh, have you, have you ever seen that woman,

That beautiful, that kind, mysterious woman?

She is our Lady of Infinite Mercy.

Blessed be our Lady of Infinite Mercy!