What I see, Mary, a very young girl: She looks fifteen years old, at most. She is in a small rectangular room: a room most suitable for a girl. Along one of the longer walls, there is a bed: a low bed, without bedstead, covered with thick mats or carpets, which appear to be laid on boards or came-trellis, because they are very stiff and without any curve, as is usual beds. Against the other wall there is a kind of bookcase with an oil lamp, some rolls of parchment, some needlework carefully folded: it seems to be embroidery work.
Beside the bookcase, towards the door, which opens onto the kitchen garden and which is now covered by a curtain gently moved by a light breeze, there is the Virgin sitting on a low stool. She is spinning some linen which is as white as snow and as soft as silk. Her little hands, just a little darker than linen, are whirling the spindle very quickly. Her beautiful young face is slightly bent forward and She is smiling gently as if She were caressing or following some sweet thought.
There is a great silence in the little house and in the kitchen garden. There is a great peace both on Mary's face and in the surrounding place. There is a peace and order. Everything is neat and tidy and the room, although very modest looking and very modestly furnished, it is almost as bare as a cell, has something austere and regal about it because of its cleanliness and the care which everything is laid: the clothes on the bed, the rolls, the lamp, the copper pitcher near the lamp, with a bunch of branches in bloom in it. I do not know whether they are peach or pear branches. They are certainly branches of a fruit-tree, with pinkish white flowers.
Mary begins to sing in a low voice, then She raises Her voice slightly. But She does not sing loudly. Still, it is a voice vibrating in the little room and one can perceive the vibration of Her soul in it. I do not understand the words as they are spoken in Hebrew. But as now and again She repeats "Jehovah" I realize that it is a sacred song, perhaps a psalm. Mary is probably remembering the songs of the Temple. And it must be a happy memory because She lays Her hands in Her lap, while still holding the yarn and the spindle, and lifts Her head leaning against the wall: Her face is beautifully flushed and Her eyes are lost behind. I wonder what sweet thought. Her eyes are shining with tears, which appear but do not overflow and they make Her eyes look larger. And yet those eyes are smiling, they are smiling at a thought they can see and by which Mary is abstracted from the earthly world. Mary's face, flushed and girded by the plaits She wears rolled up like a crown round Her head, seems a beautiful flower, as it emerges from Her plain white dress.
The song changes into a prayer: "Most High Lord God, do not delay any longer in sending Your Servant to bring peace to the world. Grant us the favorable time and the pure and prolific virgin for the coming of Your Christ. Father, Holy Father, grant Me, Your servant to offer My life for this purpose. Grant Me to die after seeing Your Light and Your Justice on earth and after knowing that our Redemption has been accomplished. O Holy Father, send the Promise of the Prophets to the earth. Send the Redeemer to Your maidservant, so that in the hour of my death, Your abode may be opened to Me, as its gates have already been opened by Your Christ for all those who have hoped in You. Come, come, O Spirit of the Lord. Come to the faithful who are expecting You. Come, Prince of Peace!" Mary remains absorbed thus.
The curtain moves fast, as if someone behind it ventilated it of shook it to draw it. And a pearl white light mixed with pure silver makes the slightly yellow walls clearer and makes the colors of the cloths brighter and Mary's raised face more spiritual. And in such light, while the curtain is still drawn on the mystery to be accomplished, the Archangel prostrates himself: the curtain no longer moves: it is hanging stiff against the doorposts like a wall separating the inside from the outside.
The Angel must necessarily take a human appearance. But it is a trans-humanized appearance. Of what flesh is this beautiful and gleaming figure made? With what substance did God form it to make it perceptible to the senses of the Virgin? Only God can possess such substances and use them so perfectly. It is a face, a body, eyes, a mouth, hair and hands like ours. But they are not our dull matter. It is a light that has taken the color of flesh, of eyes, hair, lips, a light that moves and smiles, looks and speaks.
I think this may be of help. A few years ago a friend lent me a book entitled “The Virgin Mary In the Writings of Maria Valtorta” by Father Gabriel Roschini. I recall being startled at finding the first two pages contained a letter of admiration of Father Gabriel’s book by Pope Paul VI, complete with the Vatican insignia, in English, with a photocopy of the original Papal letter in Italian. I can’t remember the exact wording, but I can recall the letter calling Father Gabriel’s book “obvious proof”, and thanking him wholeheartedly for his new testimony. I know that this is far from a direct Papal approval of the Poem of the Man-God by any means, but I think that at the minimal, it is strong evidence that The Poem of the Man-God cannot be considered heresy, as those hostile to this lovely gift from God are saying.