MATER DOLOROSA
By John Fitzpatrick, O.M.I.
She stands, within the shadow, at the footOf the high tree she planted: thirty-threeFull years have sped, and such has grown to beThe stem that burgeoned forth from Jesse’s root.Spring swiftly passed and panted in pursuitThe eager summer; now she stands to seeThe only fruit-time of her only tree:And all the world is waiting for the Fruit.Now is faith’s sad fruition: this one hourOf gathered expectation wears the crownOf the long grief with which the years were rife;As in her lap—a sudden autumn shower—The earthquake with his trembling hand shakes downThe red, ripe Fruitage of the Tree of Life.
She stands, within the shadow, at the footOf the high tree she planted: thirty-threeFull years have sped, and such has grown to beThe stem that burgeoned forth from Jesse’s root.Spring swiftly passed and panted in pursuitThe eager summer; now she stands to seeThe only fruit-time of her only tree:And all the world is waiting for the Fruit.Now is faith’s sad fruition: this one hourOf gathered expectation wears the crownOf the long grief with which the years were rife;As in her lap—a sudden autumn shower—The earthquake with his trembling hand shakes downThe red, ripe Fruitage of the Tree of Life.
She stands, within the shadow, at the footOf the high tree she planted: thirty-threeFull years have sped, and such has grown to beThe stem that burgeoned forth from Jesse’s root.Spring swiftly passed and panted in pursuitThe eager summer; now she stands to seeThe only fruit-time of her only tree:And all the world is waiting for the Fruit.
She stands, within the shadow, at the foot
Of the high tree she planted: thirty-three
Full years have sped, and such has grown to be
The stem that burgeoned forth from Jesse’s root.
Spring swiftly passed and panted in pursuit
The eager summer; now she stands to see
The only fruit-time of her only tree:
And all the world is waiting for the Fruit.
Now is faith’s sad fruition: this one hourOf gathered expectation wears the crownOf the long grief with which the years were rife;As in her lap—a sudden autumn shower—The earthquake with his trembling hand shakes downThe red, ripe Fruitage of the Tree of Life.
Now is faith’s sad fruition: this one hour
Of gathered expectation wears the crown
Of the long grief with which the years were rife;
As in her lap—a sudden autumn shower—
The earthquake with his trembling hand shakes down
The red, ripe Fruitage of the Tree of Life.