31 The Song of Tepeyac Four centuries have passed, and the glory of this hill has not yet been tarnished. The immortal scene grows larger and more immense. Juan Diego now stands for a people—an enthusiastic people—who come to lay at the feet of the heavenly Lady the formidable burden of their history, who come to put their loyal heart in the sweet lap of their very tender mother. And here she is. Our mortal eyes do not see her as did those of the blessed Juan Diego. Better than that, however, our faith knows her and our love reaches her. Here she is loving us as she has always loved us—I dare say: loving us as she has never loved us. Her eyes probe the abysses of love and pain that we carry in our souls. She looks at us with greater sweetness, and with the glory of her ever-tender smiles is blended a delicate compassion for our sorrows and pains. Here she is—beautiful, smiling, heavenly. And with unspeakable tenderness and in an intimate language that only faith and love understand, she tells us what she began to tell us four centuries ago, what she always tells us, what she will still tell us when time is running out: “My son, whom I love as a little and delicate one.” To the word of her lips she adds a pledge of her love. Juan Diego gathers the roses that sprouted at the utterance of her word. By touching them with her very pure hands, she lays her
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