Mary related from my stuff:
In his apostolic letter, John Paul II wrote that the most important reason to encourage the practice of the Rosary is that it fosters a “commitment to the contemplation of the Christian mystery” in all of its richness. Our model of contemplation, the Pope says, is Mary. In the way that any mother would look upon the face of her child, Mary as the mother of Jesus is the perfect model for our approach to contemplation of the face of Christ.
The Gospels show that the gaze of Mary varied depending upon the circumstances of life. So it will be with us. Each time we pick up the holy beads to recite the Rosary, our gaze at the mystery of Christ will differ depending on where we find ourselves at that moment.
Thereafter Mary’s gaze, ever filled with adoration and wonder, would never leave him. At times it would be a questioning look, as in the episode of the finding in the Temple: “Son, why have you treated us so?” (Lk 2:48); it would always be a penetrating gaze, one capable of deeply understanding Jesus, even to the point of perceiving his hidden feelings and anticipating his decisions, as at Cana (cf. Jn 2:5). At other times it would be a look of sorrow, especially beneath the Cross, where her vision would still be that of mother giving birth, for Mary not only shared the passion and death of her Son, she also received the new son given to her in the beloved disciple (cf. Jn 19:26-27). On the morning of Easter hers would be a gaze radiant with the joy of the Resurrection, and finally, on the day of Pentecost, a gaze afire with the outpouring of the Spirit (cf. Acts 1:14) [Rosarium Virginis Mariae, no. 10].
As we pray the Rosary, then, we join with Mary in contemplating Christ. With her, we remember Christ, we proclaim Him, we learn from Him, and, most importantly, as we raise our voices in prayer and our hearts in contemplation of the holy mysteries, this “compendium of the Gospel” itself, we are conformed to Him.
Also, for more on some Marian prayers, check out The Words We Pray:
And then, as Compline drew to a close and night settled, the monks started singing.
Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy
It was what all monks sing at the end of Compline, everywhere. The Salve Regina. I had never heard it before in my life.
Our life, our sweetness and our hope.
To thee do we cry, Poor banished children of Eve
Yes. I cry, banished, my own actions bringing tears to the lives of others. What could I do?
To thee do we send up our sighs, Mourning and weeping In this valley of tears.
All of us.
Turn then, most gracious Advocate, Thine eyes of mercy towards us,
O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary!
The monks raised their voices in hope at the end of each phrase, and then paused a great pause in between, letting the hope rise and then settle back into their hearts. My own heart rushed, unbidden by me, uncontrolled, right into those pauses and joined the prayer. A prayer written by a eleventh-century bedridden brother, chanted by monks in the middle of Georgia, and joined by me and the silent folk scattered in the pews around me, each with his or her own reasons to beg the Virgin for her prayers.
And we weren’t the only ones joined in that prayer. With us was a great throng of other Christians who had prayed it over the centuries, and who are praying it at this very moment.