A LITTLE chamber, shadowed, stillAs cave within a marble hill—O Virgin Mother, thou dost fillThe little space, bent down in prayer!Sudden, through tears, thou art awareHow One is standing at thy door,As stood, some thirty years before,The Angel when thy fear was sore.O Virgin—Virgin-Mother now,No creature half so still as thou,With the black wimple round thy brow,For He hath entered: very whiteHis body, lovely as first light.Thou tremblest ... Mother, thou dost hearAnAvestealing through thy fear,As He who entered draweth near!“Jesus?”—She quickly hid in dreadThe name that through her being spreadIts lustre, for her Son was dead....And yet her arms rise up, her eyesRaised as at morning sacrifice:For blessèd is she in this dowerBeyond the Holy Ghost’s, that hourWhen He encompassed her in power.
A LITTLE chamber, shadowed, stillAs cave within a marble hill—O Virgin Mother, thou dost fillThe little space, bent down in prayer!Sudden, through tears, thou art awareHow One is standing at thy door,As stood, some thirty years before,The Angel when thy fear was sore.O Virgin—Virgin-Mother now,No creature half so still as thou,With the black wimple round thy brow,For He hath entered: very whiteHis body, lovely as first light.Thou tremblest ... Mother, thou dost hearAnAvestealing through thy fear,As He who entered draweth near!“Jesus?”—She quickly hid in dreadThe name that through her being spreadIts lustre, for her Son was dead....And yet her arms rise up, her eyesRaised as at morning sacrifice:For blessèd is she in this dowerBeyond the Holy Ghost’s, that hourWhen He encompassed her in power.
A LITTLE chamber, shadowed, stillAs cave within a marble hill—O Virgin Mother, thou dost fillThe little space, bent down in prayer!Sudden, through tears, thou art awareHow One is standing at thy door,As stood, some thirty years before,The Angel when thy fear was sore.
O Virgin—Virgin-Mother now,No creature half so still as thou,With the black wimple round thy brow,For He hath entered: very whiteHis body, lovely as first light.Thou tremblest ... Mother, thou dost hearAnAvestealing through thy fear,As He who entered draweth near!
“Jesus?”—She quickly hid in dreadThe name that through her being spreadIts lustre, for her Son was dead....And yet her arms rise up, her eyesRaised as at morning sacrifice:For blessèd is she in this dowerBeyond the Holy Ghost’s, that hourWhen He encompassed her in power.
BREATH from the water, breath down from the moon,A trembling influence between, so mild,The water-hen makes tempest if she croon,And fishers from the ship look forth beguiled:They look on, careless of the reeds aswim,And know not why they watch the shoreway dim;Why watch the single form that moves along,So dark in nobleness of solitude,By the lake-side, and gathers from amongThe rushes fallen rush as fuel rude.One from the ship bows forwards in the night....What makes that fisher’s face so gaily white?A voice comes to them: “Children, have ye caughtAll the night nothing?” And the voice entreats:“Stretch forth your nets!”—Behold, the nets are fraught,Once dipped, with fish, a silver dance, that beatsAgainst the trellis.... And John’s face shines nowAs Lucifer, the Dawn-star, from the prow.In Peter’s ear “It is the Lord” he saith—Virgin, he knows the Virgin Deity:Then on the secret holding back his breath,While Peter girds his clothes on boisterouslyTo spring out overboard, John doth abideWith his own smile, and steers to the Loved Side.
BREATH from the water, breath down from the moon,A trembling influence between, so mild,The water-hen makes tempest if she croon,And fishers from the ship look forth beguiled:They look on, careless of the reeds aswim,And know not why they watch the shoreway dim;Why watch the single form that moves along,So dark in nobleness of solitude,By the lake-side, and gathers from amongThe rushes fallen rush as fuel rude.One from the ship bows forwards in the night....What makes that fisher’s face so gaily white?A voice comes to them: “Children, have ye caughtAll the night nothing?” And the voice entreats:“Stretch forth your nets!”—Behold, the nets are fraught,Once dipped, with fish, a silver dance, that beatsAgainst the trellis.... And John’s face shines nowAs Lucifer, the Dawn-star, from the prow.In Peter’s ear “It is the Lord” he saith—Virgin, he knows the Virgin Deity:Then on the secret holding back his breath,While Peter girds his clothes on boisterouslyTo spring out overboard, John doth abideWith his own smile, and steers to the Loved Side.
BREATH from the water, breath down from the moon,A trembling influence between, so mild,The water-hen makes tempest if she croon,And fishers from the ship look forth beguiled:They look on, careless of the reeds aswim,And know not why they watch the shoreway dim;
Why watch the single form that moves along,So dark in nobleness of solitude,By the lake-side, and gathers from amongThe rushes fallen rush as fuel rude.One from the ship bows forwards in the night....What makes that fisher’s face so gaily white?
A voice comes to them: “Children, have ye caughtAll the night nothing?” And the voice entreats:“Stretch forth your nets!”—Behold, the nets are fraught,Once dipped, with fish, a silver dance, that beatsAgainst the trellis.... And John’s face shines nowAs Lucifer, the Dawn-star, from the prow.
In Peter’s ear “It is the Lord” he saith—Virgin, he knows the Virgin Deity:Then on the secret holding back his breath,While Peter girds his clothes on boisterouslyTo spring out overboard, John doth abideWith his own smile, and steers to the Loved Side.
“Peace be to you!”—The door is closed.“Peace be to you!”—Only His Wounds lie wide,His Wounds in hands, and side.And feet, His Wounds exposed.And I rejoiceAt His still hands and at the voiceOf the Wounds calling through twilight;For here the day is almost night,In its severe and curtained dark....But I rejoice to harkWhat on His priest He whispers low,Breathing the breath of power through day’s eclipse,A sigh on all the placeAs of creation on the waters’ face:“Receive the Holy Spirit! All the sinsYou shall remit, remitted are,And those you shall retain, they are retained.”Listen! The empery this chamber wins!A Law moves here as peaceful as a starMoves on the circle of its sway ordained.Here let me kneel, and every struggle cease!Here the dark Wounds bleed over me in peace:Here God hath come to bless me at nightfall,With words of consolation that appal,For I had left Him, as the gathered fewOf His disciples He passed, darkling, through:And yet He came to them as comes a dew....O bounty of such stillness!—“Peace to you!”
“Peace be to you!”—The door is closed.“Peace be to you!”—Only His Wounds lie wide,His Wounds in hands, and side.And feet, His Wounds exposed.And I rejoiceAt His still hands and at the voiceOf the Wounds calling through twilight;For here the day is almost night,In its severe and curtained dark....But I rejoice to harkWhat on His priest He whispers low,Breathing the breath of power through day’s eclipse,A sigh on all the placeAs of creation on the waters’ face:“Receive the Holy Spirit! All the sinsYou shall remit, remitted are,And those you shall retain, they are retained.”Listen! The empery this chamber wins!A Law moves here as peaceful as a starMoves on the circle of its sway ordained.Here let me kneel, and every struggle cease!Here the dark Wounds bleed over me in peace:Here God hath come to bless me at nightfall,With words of consolation that appal,For I had left Him, as the gathered fewOf His disciples He passed, darkling, through:And yet He came to them as comes a dew....O bounty of such stillness!—“Peace to you!”
“Peace be to you!”—The door is closed.“Peace be to you!”—Only His Wounds lie wide,His Wounds in hands, and side.And feet, His Wounds exposed.And I rejoiceAt His still hands and at the voiceOf the Wounds calling through twilight;For here the day is almost night,In its severe and curtained dark....But I rejoice to harkWhat on His priest He whispers low,Breathing the breath of power through day’s eclipse,A sigh on all the placeAs of creation on the waters’ face:“Receive the Holy Spirit! All the sinsYou shall remit, remitted are,And those you shall retain, they are retained.”Listen! The empery this chamber wins!A Law moves here as peaceful as a starMoves on the circle of its sway ordained.Here let me kneel, and every struggle cease!Here the dark Wounds bleed over me in peace:Here God hath come to bless me at nightfall,With words of consolation that appal,For I had left Him, as the gathered fewOf His disciples He passed, darkling, through:And yet He came to them as comes a dew....O bounty of such stillness!—“Peace to you!”
FINE, jealous, in suspicion as a child,In jealousy more infinitely wild,Forth to us from Thy Father Thou didst come:Now to Thy Father in His homeAscend—to the Beginning and the Dawn!Pass to the East,New-born our priest—The East,And where the rose is born!O Heaven of Heavens, as no sea is clear,O Eastern Gate of Waters, with a spearDay rings you wide for Christ to be released!He passes free from Earth, our priestForth to His Shrine: our love, grown tense,Would follow Him,Through SeraphimLost dim,His servers who incense.
FINE, jealous, in suspicion as a child,In jealousy more infinitely wild,Forth to us from Thy Father Thou didst come:Now to Thy Father in His homeAscend—to the Beginning and the Dawn!Pass to the East,New-born our priest—The East,And where the rose is born!O Heaven of Heavens, as no sea is clear,O Eastern Gate of Waters, with a spearDay rings you wide for Christ to be released!He passes free from Earth, our priestForth to His Shrine: our love, grown tense,Would follow Him,Through SeraphimLost dim,His servers who incense.
FINE, jealous, in suspicion as a child,In jealousy more infinitely wild,Forth to us from Thy Father Thou didst come:Now to Thy Father in His homeAscend—to the Beginning and the Dawn!Pass to the East,New-born our priest—The East,And where the rose is born!
O Heaven of Heavens, as no sea is clear,O Eastern Gate of Waters, with a spearDay rings you wide for Christ to be released!He passes free from Earth, our priestForth to His Shrine: our love, grown tense,Would follow Him,Through SeraphimLost dim,His servers who incense.
Genitori genitoqueLaus et jubilatio.
Genitori genitoqueLaus et jubilatio.
Genitori genitoqueLaus et jubilatio.
ONE—from the limits of the sky, whence rainAnd sun and dew come down,Moveth, a sheet of fire, and in His train,Where the flames ripple brown,Are spirits to be bornInto the Earth, dim creatures slender,Girt in the train of Him whose brows are tender,Compulsive, sweet as in the strength of morn.One—from the deepness of the Earth, where gravesHave fallen on gems in rock,Moveth, a sheet of fire, whose ruddy wavesHave gathered up a flockOf people on all sides,Redeemed from Earth by that red flowingBehind a Form, as if from sunset glowingAbove the wheat, when harvest-home betides.
ONE—from the limits of the sky, whence rainAnd sun and dew come down,Moveth, a sheet of fire, and in His train,Where the flames ripple brown,Are spirits to be bornInto the Earth, dim creatures slender,Girt in the train of Him whose brows are tender,Compulsive, sweet as in the strength of morn.One—from the deepness of the Earth, where gravesHave fallen on gems in rock,Moveth, a sheet of fire, whose ruddy wavesHave gathered up a flockOf people on all sides,Redeemed from Earth by that red flowingBehind a Form, as if from sunset glowingAbove the wheat, when harvest-home betides.
ONE—from the limits of the sky, whence rainAnd sun and dew come down,Moveth, a sheet of fire, and in His train,Where the flames ripple brown,Are spirits to be bornInto the Earth, dim creatures slender,Girt in the train of Him whose brows are tender,Compulsive, sweet as in the strength of morn.
One—from the deepness of the Earth, where gravesHave fallen on gems in rock,Moveth, a sheet of fire, whose ruddy wavesHave gathered up a flockOf people on all sides,Redeemed from Earth by that red flowingBehind a Form, as if from sunset glowingAbove the wheat, when harvest-home betides.
WE may enter far into a rose,Parting it, hut the bee deeper still:With our eyes we may even penetrateTo a ruby and our vision fill;Though a beam of sunlight deeper knowsHow the ruby’s heart-rays congregate.Give me finer potency of gift!For Thy Holy Wounds I would attain,As a bee the feeding lovelinessOf the sanguine roses. I would liftFlashes of such faith that I may drainFrom each Gem the wells of Blood that press!
WE may enter far into a rose,Parting it, hut the bee deeper still:With our eyes we may even penetrateTo a ruby and our vision fill;Though a beam of sunlight deeper knowsHow the ruby’s heart-rays congregate.Give me finer potency of gift!For Thy Holy Wounds I would attain,As a bee the feeding lovelinessOf the sanguine roses. I would liftFlashes of such faith that I may drainFrom each Gem the wells of Blood that press!
WE may enter far into a rose,Parting it, hut the bee deeper still:With our eyes we may even penetrateTo a ruby and our vision fill;Though a beam of sunlight deeper knowsHow the ruby’s heart-rays congregate.
Give me finer potency of gift!For Thy Holy Wounds I would attain,As a bee the feeding lovelinessOf the sanguine roses. I would liftFlashes of such faith that I may drainFrom each Gem the wells of Blood that press!
YE who would follow Me with song,My heavenly bodyguard, My throngOf happy throats, with voices freeAs birds in deep-wood secrecy;Ye who would be the core of Heaven round Me,And therefore songsters of felicityBeyond all ranges of the singingThat myriad voices of the Blessed are flingingIn skylark madness to Me distantly;My Virgins, My delight and neighbourhood,The white flowers of My Precious Blood,Through whom it rises up and yieldsFragrance to Me of lily-fields;How shall ye keep the whiteness of your vow?My Virgins, My white Brides, I whisper how:Of Virgin flesh, a Virgin God,Incarnate among men I trod;And when as Bread they feed on MeNeeds must that Bread be of Virginity.Feed at My altar, My white Doves,Feed on the Bread My Mother loves!
YE who would follow Me with song,My heavenly bodyguard, My throngOf happy throats, with voices freeAs birds in deep-wood secrecy;Ye who would be the core of Heaven round Me,And therefore songsters of felicityBeyond all ranges of the singingThat myriad voices of the Blessed are flingingIn skylark madness to Me distantly;My Virgins, My delight and neighbourhood,The white flowers of My Precious Blood,Through whom it rises up and yieldsFragrance to Me of lily-fields;How shall ye keep the whiteness of your vow?My Virgins, My white Brides, I whisper how:Of Virgin flesh, a Virgin God,Incarnate among men I trod;And when as Bread they feed on MeNeeds must that Bread be of Virginity.Feed at My altar, My white Doves,Feed on the Bread My Mother loves!
YE who would follow Me with song,My heavenly bodyguard, My throngOf happy throats, with voices freeAs birds in deep-wood secrecy;Ye who would be the core of Heaven round Me,And therefore songsters of felicityBeyond all ranges of the singingThat myriad voices of the Blessed are flingingIn skylark madness to Me distantly;My Virgins, My delight and neighbourhood,The white flowers of My Precious Blood,Through whom it rises up and yieldsFragrance to Me of lily-fields;How shall ye keep the whiteness of your vow?My Virgins, My white Brides, I whisper how:Of Virgin flesh, a Virgin God,Incarnate among men I trod;And when as Bread they feed on MeNeeds must that Bread be of Virginity.Feed at My altar, My white Doves,Feed on the Bread My Mother loves!
THOU art in the early youthOf Thy mission, Thou the Truth:Thy young eyes behold the gloryOf the lilies’ burnished storyThat the lovely dress they donVaunts it over Solomon.Fields of lilies and of cornThou dost tarry through at dawn,Seeing in their life a spell,Drawing it as grace to dwellIn Thy first disciples’ eyes.We of far-off centuriesSee Thee on the cornfields’ sod,Mid the lily-heads, a GodYoung and dumb as yet of grief.Lo, although the time is brief,All the heavenly things, Thou mustSuffer, because Love is justTo a perfect building’s measure,Thou hast buried under pleasureOf Thy heart incarnate midYouths Thou call’st and forces hidWith fresh flowers and stems of gold.Yet Thy vision, waxing boldThrough the Truth, amid the lightOf this world’s green, gold and white,Sees a desert stretch away,Stretched on its upheavals gray,Round a serpent lifted highIn untarnishable sky.Thou dost see that serpent highIn untarnishable sky:And with ruddy lips dost sayHow the Son of Man one dayMust be lifted for Love’s sake.Thy bright eyes, so clear awake,See Thy Body lifted highAs a serpent’s in the sky.Day by day Thou see’st Thy Cross—Yet the cornfields are not dross;Nor the lilies, kinglike clad,Grave-clothes of a weaving sad.Life for lily-flowers too fair—No sustaining corn may share—Thou dost hail for those who gazeOn the serpent’s lifted maze.Feeder among Lilies, BreadTo Thy multitudes outspread,Let me love Thy pasture, allBliss that round my life may fall,Though my eyes and voice, as Thine,Witness the raised serpent’s twine.
THOU art in the early youthOf Thy mission, Thou the Truth:Thy young eyes behold the gloryOf the lilies’ burnished storyThat the lovely dress they donVaunts it over Solomon.Fields of lilies and of cornThou dost tarry through at dawn,Seeing in their life a spell,Drawing it as grace to dwellIn Thy first disciples’ eyes.We of far-off centuriesSee Thee on the cornfields’ sod,Mid the lily-heads, a GodYoung and dumb as yet of grief.Lo, although the time is brief,All the heavenly things, Thou mustSuffer, because Love is justTo a perfect building’s measure,Thou hast buried under pleasureOf Thy heart incarnate midYouths Thou call’st and forces hidWith fresh flowers and stems of gold.Yet Thy vision, waxing boldThrough the Truth, amid the lightOf this world’s green, gold and white,Sees a desert stretch away,Stretched on its upheavals gray,Round a serpent lifted highIn untarnishable sky.Thou dost see that serpent highIn untarnishable sky:And with ruddy lips dost sayHow the Son of Man one dayMust be lifted for Love’s sake.Thy bright eyes, so clear awake,See Thy Body lifted highAs a serpent’s in the sky.Day by day Thou see’st Thy Cross—Yet the cornfields are not dross;Nor the lilies, kinglike clad,Grave-clothes of a weaving sad.Life for lily-flowers too fair—No sustaining corn may share—Thou dost hail for those who gazeOn the serpent’s lifted maze.Feeder among Lilies, BreadTo Thy multitudes outspread,Let me love Thy pasture, allBliss that round my life may fall,Though my eyes and voice, as Thine,Witness the raised serpent’s twine.
THOU art in the early youthOf Thy mission, Thou the Truth:Thy young eyes behold the gloryOf the lilies’ burnished storyThat the lovely dress they donVaunts it over Solomon.Fields of lilies and of cornThou dost tarry through at dawn,Seeing in their life a spell,Drawing it as grace to dwellIn Thy first disciples’ eyes.We of far-off centuriesSee Thee on the cornfields’ sod,Mid the lily-heads, a GodYoung and dumb as yet of grief.Lo, although the time is brief,All the heavenly things, Thou mustSuffer, because Love is justTo a perfect building’s measure,Thou hast buried under pleasureOf Thy heart incarnate midYouths Thou call’st and forces hidWith fresh flowers and stems of gold.Yet Thy vision, waxing boldThrough the Truth, amid the lightOf this world’s green, gold and white,Sees a desert stretch away,Stretched on its upheavals gray,Round a serpent lifted highIn untarnishable sky.Thou dost see that serpent highIn untarnishable sky:And with ruddy lips dost sayHow the Son of Man one dayMust be lifted for Love’s sake.Thy bright eyes, so clear awake,See Thy Body lifted highAs a serpent’s in the sky.Day by day Thou see’st Thy Cross—Yet the cornfields are not dross;Nor the lilies, kinglike clad,Grave-clothes of a weaving sad.Life for lily-flowers too fair—No sustaining corn may share—Thou dost hail for those who gazeOn the serpent’s lifted maze.Feeder among Lilies, BreadTo Thy multitudes outspread,Let me love Thy pasture, allBliss that round my life may fall,Though my eyes and voice, as Thine,Witness the raised serpent’s twine.
COME down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself—come down!Thou wilt be free as wind. None meeting thee will knowHow thou wert hanging stark, my soul, outside the town.Thou wilt fare to and fro;Thy feet in grass will smell of faithful thyme; thy head ...Think of the thorns, my soul—how thou wilt cast them off,With shudder at the bleeding clench they hold!But on their wounds thou wilt a balsam spread,And over that a verdurous circle rolledWith gathered violets, sweet bright violets, sweetAs incense of the thyme on thy free feet;A wreath thou wilt not give away, nor wilt thou doff.Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself; yea, moveAs scudding swans pass lithely on a seaward stream!Thou wilt have everything thou wert made great to love;Thou wilt have ease for every dream;No nails with fang will hold thy purpose to one aim;There will be arbours round about thee, not one trunkAgainst thy shoulders pressed and burning them with hate,Yea, burning with intolerable flame.O lips, such noxious vinegar have drunk,There are through valley-woods and mountain-gladesRivers where thirst in naked prowess wades;And there are wells in solitude whose chill no hour abates!Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself! A signThou wilt become to many, as a shooting star.They will believe thou art æthereal, divine,When thou art where they are;They will believe in thee and give thee feasts and praise.They will believe thy power when thou hast loosed thy nails;For power to them is fetterless and grand:For destiny to them, along their ways,Is one whose Earthly Kingdom never fails.Thou wilt be as a prophet or a kingIn thy tremendous term of flourishing—And thy hot royalty with acclamations fanned.Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself!... Beware!Art thou not crucified with God, who is thy breath?Wilt thou not hang as He while mockers laugh and stare?Wilt thou not die His death?Wilt thou not stay as He with nails and thorns and thirst?Wilt thou not choose to conquer faith in His lone style?Wilt thou not be with Him and hold thee still?Voices have cried to Him,Come down!AccursedAnd vain those voices, striving to beguile!How heedless, solemn-gray in powerful mass,Christ droops among the echoes as they pass!O soul, remain with Him, with Him thy doom fulfil!
COME down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself—come down!Thou wilt be free as wind. None meeting thee will knowHow thou wert hanging stark, my soul, outside the town.Thou wilt fare to and fro;Thy feet in grass will smell of faithful thyme; thy head ...Think of the thorns, my soul—how thou wilt cast them off,With shudder at the bleeding clench they hold!But on their wounds thou wilt a balsam spread,And over that a verdurous circle rolledWith gathered violets, sweet bright violets, sweetAs incense of the thyme on thy free feet;A wreath thou wilt not give away, nor wilt thou doff.Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself; yea, moveAs scudding swans pass lithely on a seaward stream!Thou wilt have everything thou wert made great to love;Thou wilt have ease for every dream;No nails with fang will hold thy purpose to one aim;There will be arbours round about thee, not one trunkAgainst thy shoulders pressed and burning them with hate,Yea, burning with intolerable flame.O lips, such noxious vinegar have drunk,There are through valley-woods and mountain-gladesRivers where thirst in naked prowess wades;And there are wells in solitude whose chill no hour abates!Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself! A signThou wilt become to many, as a shooting star.They will believe thou art æthereal, divine,When thou art where they are;They will believe in thee and give thee feasts and praise.They will believe thy power when thou hast loosed thy nails;For power to them is fetterless and grand:For destiny to them, along their ways,Is one whose Earthly Kingdom never fails.Thou wilt be as a prophet or a kingIn thy tremendous term of flourishing—And thy hot royalty with acclamations fanned.Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself!... Beware!Art thou not crucified with God, who is thy breath?Wilt thou not hang as He while mockers laugh and stare?Wilt thou not die His death?Wilt thou not stay as He with nails and thorns and thirst?Wilt thou not choose to conquer faith in His lone style?Wilt thou not be with Him and hold thee still?Voices have cried to Him,Come down!AccursedAnd vain those voices, striving to beguile!How heedless, solemn-gray in powerful mass,Christ droops among the echoes as they pass!O soul, remain with Him, with Him thy doom fulfil!
COME down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself—come down!Thou wilt be free as wind. None meeting thee will knowHow thou wert hanging stark, my soul, outside the town.Thou wilt fare to and fro;Thy feet in grass will smell of faithful thyme; thy head ...Think of the thorns, my soul—how thou wilt cast them off,With shudder at the bleeding clench they hold!But on their wounds thou wilt a balsam spread,And over that a verdurous circle rolledWith gathered violets, sweet bright violets, sweetAs incense of the thyme on thy free feet;A wreath thou wilt not give away, nor wilt thou doff.
Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself; yea, moveAs scudding swans pass lithely on a seaward stream!Thou wilt have everything thou wert made great to love;Thou wilt have ease for every dream;No nails with fang will hold thy purpose to one aim;There will be arbours round about thee, not one trunkAgainst thy shoulders pressed and burning them with hate,Yea, burning with intolerable flame.O lips, such noxious vinegar have drunk,There are through valley-woods and mountain-gladesRivers where thirst in naked prowess wades;And there are wells in solitude whose chill no hour abates!
Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself! A signThou wilt become to many, as a shooting star.They will believe thou art æthereal, divine,When thou art where they are;They will believe in thee and give thee feasts and praise.They will believe thy power when thou hast loosed thy nails;For power to them is fetterless and grand:For destiny to them, along their ways,Is one whose Earthly Kingdom never fails.Thou wilt be as a prophet or a kingIn thy tremendous term of flourishing—And thy hot royalty with acclamations fanned.
Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself!... Beware!Art thou not crucified with God, who is thy breath?Wilt thou not hang as He while mockers laugh and stare?Wilt thou not die His death?Wilt thou not stay as He with nails and thorns and thirst?Wilt thou not choose to conquer faith in His lone style?Wilt thou not be with Him and hold thee still?Voices have cried to Him,Come down!AccursedAnd vain those voices, striving to beguile!How heedless, solemn-gray in powerful mass,Christ droops among the echoes as they pass!O soul, remain with Him, with Him thy doom fulfil!
LORD Jesus, Thou didst come to us, to man,From Godhead’s open golden Halls,From Godhead’s hidden ThroneOf glory, no imagination canAchieve, and it must glow alone,Behind a cloud that fallsOver the Triune Perfectness its voiceOf thunder, making Cherubim rejoice,And Seraphim as doves in rapture moan.Yet Thou didst come to us a wailing child,Homeless, tied up in swaddling-clothes,To live in povertyAnd by the road: then, with detractions piled,And infamies of miseryFrom scourge and thorns and blows,To die a felon fastened into woodBy nails that in their jeering harshness couldClamp vermin of the forests to a tree.And Thou dost come to us from Heaven each day,Obeying words that call Thee downOn mortal lips; and Thou,Jesus, dost suffer mortal power to slayIts God in sacrifice: dost bowThy bright Supremacy to lose its Crown,Closed in a prison, yet through Godhead freeTo every insult, gibe and contumely—Come from Forever to be with us Now.So Thou dost come to us. But when at lastThou callest us to come to Thee,We only have to die,Only from weary bones our flesh to cast,Only to give a bitter cry;Yea, but a little while to seeOur beauty falling from us, in its fallDestined to lose its suasions that enthral,Destined to be as any gem put by.We but fulfil our stricken Nature’s lawTo fail and to consume and end;While Thou dost come and break,Coming to us, Thy Nature with a flawOf death and for our mortal sakeThou dost Thy awful wholeness rend.Oh, let me run to Thee, as runs a wind,That leaves the withered trees, it moved, behind,And triumphs forward, careless of its wake!
LORD Jesus, Thou didst come to us, to man,From Godhead’s open golden Halls,From Godhead’s hidden ThroneOf glory, no imagination canAchieve, and it must glow alone,Behind a cloud that fallsOver the Triune Perfectness its voiceOf thunder, making Cherubim rejoice,And Seraphim as doves in rapture moan.Yet Thou didst come to us a wailing child,Homeless, tied up in swaddling-clothes,To live in povertyAnd by the road: then, with detractions piled,And infamies of miseryFrom scourge and thorns and blows,To die a felon fastened into woodBy nails that in their jeering harshness couldClamp vermin of the forests to a tree.And Thou dost come to us from Heaven each day,Obeying words that call Thee downOn mortal lips; and Thou,Jesus, dost suffer mortal power to slayIts God in sacrifice: dost bowThy bright Supremacy to lose its Crown,Closed in a prison, yet through Godhead freeTo every insult, gibe and contumely—Come from Forever to be with us Now.So Thou dost come to us. But when at lastThou callest us to come to Thee,We only have to die,Only from weary bones our flesh to cast,Only to give a bitter cry;Yea, but a little while to seeOur beauty falling from us, in its fallDestined to lose its suasions that enthral,Destined to be as any gem put by.We but fulfil our stricken Nature’s lawTo fail and to consume and end;While Thou dost come and break,Coming to us, Thy Nature with a flawOf death and for our mortal sakeThou dost Thy awful wholeness rend.Oh, let me run to Thee, as runs a wind,That leaves the withered trees, it moved, behind,And triumphs forward, careless of its wake!
LORD Jesus, Thou didst come to us, to man,From Godhead’s open golden Halls,From Godhead’s hidden ThroneOf glory, no imagination canAchieve, and it must glow alone,Behind a cloud that fallsOver the Triune Perfectness its voiceOf thunder, making Cherubim rejoice,And Seraphim as doves in rapture moan.
Yet Thou didst come to us a wailing child,Homeless, tied up in swaddling-clothes,To live in povertyAnd by the road: then, with detractions piled,And infamies of miseryFrom scourge and thorns and blows,To die a felon fastened into woodBy nails that in their jeering harshness couldClamp vermin of the forests to a tree.
And Thou dost come to us from Heaven each day,Obeying words that call Thee downOn mortal lips; and Thou,Jesus, dost suffer mortal power to slayIts God in sacrifice: dost bowThy bright Supremacy to lose its Crown,Closed in a prison, yet through Godhead freeTo every insult, gibe and contumely—Come from Forever to be with us Now.
So Thou dost come to us. But when at lastThou callest us to come to Thee,We only have to die,Only from weary bones our flesh to cast,Only to give a bitter cry;Yea, but a little while to seeOur beauty falling from us, in its fallDestined to lose its suasions that enthral,Destined to be as any gem put by.
We but fulfil our stricken Nature’s lawTo fail and to consume and end;While Thou dost come and break,Coming to us, Thy Nature with a flawOf death and for our mortal sakeThou dost Thy awful wholeness rend.Oh, let me run to Thee, as runs a wind,That leaves the withered trees, it moved, behind,And triumphs forward, careless of its wake!
I NEED Thee, O my Food,O Christ, for whom I pine fourteen long days—And, as the time delays,More sad my mood,More faint my powers;Like that poor Beast of fairy-tale,Who by the fountain cowers,Reft of his Beauty, his poor love’s avail,By whom he lives, and, missing, diesBy inches, at the fountain, with wan eyes!O come, my Beauty, come,My Lord, by whom I flourish and am strong;If I must wait so long,And mourn so dumb,Reach me in time,Before I shudder into death and die!Bow down sublime,O Beautiful in pity, where I lie,And rouse me, sovereign, from my woe,Empowering me with Thy celestial glow!
I NEED Thee, O my Food,O Christ, for whom I pine fourteen long days—And, as the time delays,More sad my mood,More faint my powers;Like that poor Beast of fairy-tale,Who by the fountain cowers,Reft of his Beauty, his poor love’s avail,By whom he lives, and, missing, diesBy inches, at the fountain, with wan eyes!O come, my Beauty, come,My Lord, by whom I flourish and am strong;If I must wait so long,And mourn so dumb,Reach me in time,Before I shudder into death and die!Bow down sublime,O Beautiful in pity, where I lie,And rouse me, sovereign, from my woe,Empowering me with Thy celestial glow!
I NEED Thee, O my Food,O Christ, for whom I pine fourteen long days—And, as the time delays,More sad my mood,More faint my powers;Like that poor Beast of fairy-tale,Who by the fountain cowers,Reft of his Beauty, his poor love’s avail,By whom he lives, and, missing, diesBy inches, at the fountain, with wan eyes!
O come, my Beauty, come,My Lord, by whom I flourish and am strong;If I must wait so long,And mourn so dumb,Reach me in time,Before I shudder into death and die!Bow down sublime,O Beautiful in pity, where I lie,And rouse me, sovereign, from my woe,Empowering me with Thy celestial glow!
O MOTHER of my Lord,Beautiful Mary, aid!He, whom thy will adored,When thy body was afraid,Is coming in my flesh to dwell—Pray for me, Mary ... and white Gabriel!To thee He came a child,To me He comes as wheat:And He descended mildTo His Mother, as was meet.To me He comes where sin hath been ...Gabriel, sweep thy lily-stem between!He came, O Mary, downTo bless thy virgin womb:From me He sweeps God’s frown,And He lifts me from a tomb.Thou wert afraid.... Have grace toward me!Help me, O Mary! Gabriel, hearten me!Great love it was to giveHis Body to thy care,In thine awhile to live:For me this love He will dare....Pray, Mary, pray! My soul is shent!Thy wings, thy wings, O Gabriel, for my tent!
O MOTHER of my Lord,Beautiful Mary, aid!He, whom thy will adored,When thy body was afraid,Is coming in my flesh to dwell—Pray for me, Mary ... and white Gabriel!To thee He came a child,To me He comes as wheat:And He descended mildTo His Mother, as was meet.To me He comes where sin hath been ...Gabriel, sweep thy lily-stem between!He came, O Mary, downTo bless thy virgin womb:From me He sweeps God’s frown,And He lifts me from a tomb.Thou wert afraid.... Have grace toward me!Help me, O Mary! Gabriel, hearten me!Great love it was to giveHis Body to thy care,In thine awhile to live:For me this love He will dare....Pray, Mary, pray! My soul is shent!Thy wings, thy wings, O Gabriel, for my tent!
O MOTHER of my Lord,Beautiful Mary, aid!He, whom thy will adored,When thy body was afraid,Is coming in my flesh to dwell—Pray for me, Mary ... and white Gabriel!
To thee He came a child,To me He comes as wheat:And He descended mildTo His Mother, as was meet.To me He comes where sin hath been ...Gabriel, sweep thy lily-stem between!
He came, O Mary, downTo bless thy virgin womb:From me He sweeps God’s frown,And He lifts me from a tomb.Thou wert afraid.... Have grace toward me!Help me, O Mary! Gabriel, hearten me!
Great love it was to giveHis Body to thy care,In thine awhile to live:For me this love He will dare....Pray, Mary, pray! My soul is shent!Thy wings, thy wings, O Gabriel, for my tent!
SOFT fall the Holy Oils, their dripPeaceful as Jesus sleeping on the ship.Our eyes, so restless and so full of grip,Reflecting as the sea,Give up their range and their possession, freeAs if to sleep—the sleep of Deity.Upon the ears a lull that dowersWith gentleness of bees in laurel-flowers;So that it gives to Quiet breeding powers,A future wrought of gold,When we shall hear what never hath been told,And fathom sound it takes all heaven to hold.Oh, softness on the nostrils, where they strainedAfter their airy lusts till they attained;Now, by the Cross of balm so softly reined,They wait to breathe for breathThe vigour of their God, as a shell saith,Left on the beach, “The brine will wake my death.”The lips receive no coal of fireTo urge their fervent crying should not tire;A tender Cross gives check to such desire,And bids them wait their song,Till they are far from peril and amongThe consonant and ever-praising throng.The hands, the feet ... O Jesus, allMarked with Thy Cross, but as a dream may fallIn mercy on a mind great woes appal—A healing shade,A priestly grace, so soft the Cross is made,Embracing, by the nails we are not frayed.Crosses as flowers on every senseFall, rest on them in heavenly suspense;And then we know the holy, the immenseDelight of what shall be.When, sanctified and calm for joyance, weShall have of God our bodies deathlessly.
SOFT fall the Holy Oils, their dripPeaceful as Jesus sleeping on the ship.Our eyes, so restless and so full of grip,Reflecting as the sea,Give up their range and their possession, freeAs if to sleep—the sleep of Deity.Upon the ears a lull that dowersWith gentleness of bees in laurel-flowers;So that it gives to Quiet breeding powers,A future wrought of gold,When we shall hear what never hath been told,And fathom sound it takes all heaven to hold.Oh, softness on the nostrils, where they strainedAfter their airy lusts till they attained;Now, by the Cross of balm so softly reined,They wait to breathe for breathThe vigour of their God, as a shell saith,Left on the beach, “The brine will wake my death.”The lips receive no coal of fireTo urge their fervent crying should not tire;A tender Cross gives check to such desire,And bids them wait their song,Till they are far from peril and amongThe consonant and ever-praising throng.The hands, the feet ... O Jesus, allMarked with Thy Cross, but as a dream may fallIn mercy on a mind great woes appal—A healing shade,A priestly grace, so soft the Cross is made,Embracing, by the nails we are not frayed.Crosses as flowers on every senseFall, rest on them in heavenly suspense;And then we know the holy, the immenseDelight of what shall be.When, sanctified and calm for joyance, weShall have of God our bodies deathlessly.
SOFT fall the Holy Oils, their dripPeaceful as Jesus sleeping on the ship.Our eyes, so restless and so full of grip,Reflecting as the sea,Give up their range and their possession, freeAs if to sleep—the sleep of Deity.
Upon the ears a lull that dowersWith gentleness of bees in laurel-flowers;So that it gives to Quiet breeding powers,A future wrought of gold,When we shall hear what never hath been told,And fathom sound it takes all heaven to hold.
Oh, softness on the nostrils, where they strainedAfter their airy lusts till they attained;Now, by the Cross of balm so softly reined,They wait to breathe for breathThe vigour of their God, as a shell saith,Left on the beach, “The brine will wake my death.”
The lips receive no coal of fireTo urge their fervent crying should not tire;A tender Cross gives check to such desire,And bids them wait their song,Till they are far from peril and amongThe consonant and ever-praising throng.
The hands, the feet ... O Jesus, allMarked with Thy Cross, but as a dream may fallIn mercy on a mind great woes appal—A healing shade,A priestly grace, so soft the Cross is made,Embracing, by the nails we are not frayed.
Crosses as flowers on every senseFall, rest on them in heavenly suspense;And then we know the holy, the immenseDelight of what shall be.When, sanctified and calm for joyance, weShall have of God our bodies deathlessly.
JOY of the senses, joy of allAnd each of them, as fallThe Holy Oils!... O senses, ye would dance,Would circle what ye cannot see,Nor hear, nor smell, nor taste, nor touch,Yet ye receive of your felicity,Till ye would reel and dance;The joy apparent from your bliss being suchThat, in a fivefold garland knit,Softly ye would circle it.Joy ripples through each covered lid;Nor are the ears forbidSounds as of honeycomb, so sweet is HeavenAfar, such sweet, such haunting sound!O nostrils, myrtle ye shall love!The lips taste fully, as if God were found.Swift, under peace, toward HeavenThe hands, the feet, so still, like still lakes move,Delighted Powers of Sense, ye dance,Woven in such a lovely chance!
JOY of the senses, joy of allAnd each of them, as fallThe Holy Oils!... O senses, ye would dance,Would circle what ye cannot see,Nor hear, nor smell, nor taste, nor touch,Yet ye receive of your felicity,Till ye would reel and dance;The joy apparent from your bliss being suchThat, in a fivefold garland knit,Softly ye would circle it.Joy ripples through each covered lid;Nor are the ears forbidSounds as of honeycomb, so sweet is HeavenAfar, such sweet, such haunting sound!O nostrils, myrtle ye shall love!The lips taste fully, as if God were found.Swift, under peace, toward HeavenThe hands, the feet, so still, like still lakes move,Delighted Powers of Sense, ye dance,Woven in such a lovely chance!
JOY of the senses, joy of allAnd each of them, as fallThe Holy Oils!... O senses, ye would dance,Would circle what ye cannot see,Nor hear, nor smell, nor taste, nor touch,Yet ye receive of your felicity,Till ye would reel and dance;The joy apparent from your bliss being suchThat, in a fivefold garland knit,Softly ye would circle it.
Joy ripples through each covered lid;Nor are the ears forbidSounds as of honeycomb, so sweet is HeavenAfar, such sweet, such haunting sound!O nostrils, myrtle ye shall love!The lips taste fully, as if God were found.Swift, under peace, toward HeavenThe hands, the feet, so still, like still lakes move,Delighted Powers of Sense, ye dance,Woven in such a lovely chance!
O HEART, that burns within,Illuminated, hot!O feet, that tread the roadAs if they trod it not—So lifted and so wingedBy rare companionship!No matter tho’ the roadDoth unto shadow dip;The meaning of the nightMy ears, attentive, hail.The mighty silence bringsMusic no nightingaleHath warbled from its fount;Music of holy thingsMade clear as song can make,With marvellous utterings:The Past become a joyOf instant clarity,As the deep evening fillsWith converse brimmingly.O nightingale, hold backYour wildest song’s discant;You cannot make my heartWith such devotion pantAs He who steps alongBeside me in the shade,Down the steep valley-road,The enveloping, dark glade!Hush, O dim nightingale!...Is it my God whose FeetWing mine to travel on;Whose voice in current sweetShows how divine the thoughtAnd purpose is of allThat hath been and shall be,And shall to me befall?Stay, nightingale! Behold!This Wayfarer, with strange,Wild Voice that rouses gloomThy voice could never range,Hath broken Bread with me!No resinous, balmed shrineGlows from its core as I,When I behold His sign,And touch His offering Hand.O holiest journey, spedWith Him who died for me,Who breaking with me Bread,Is known to me as Life,Is felt by me as Fire;Who is my Way and allMy wayfaring’s Desire!
O HEART, that burns within,Illuminated, hot!O feet, that tread the roadAs if they trod it not—So lifted and so wingedBy rare companionship!No matter tho’ the roadDoth unto shadow dip;The meaning of the nightMy ears, attentive, hail.The mighty silence bringsMusic no nightingaleHath warbled from its fount;Music of holy thingsMade clear as song can make,With marvellous utterings:The Past become a joyOf instant clarity,As the deep evening fillsWith converse brimmingly.O nightingale, hold backYour wildest song’s discant;You cannot make my heartWith such devotion pantAs He who steps alongBeside me in the shade,Down the steep valley-road,The enveloping, dark glade!Hush, O dim nightingale!...Is it my God whose FeetWing mine to travel on;Whose voice in current sweetShows how divine the thoughtAnd purpose is of allThat hath been and shall be,And shall to me befall?Stay, nightingale! Behold!This Wayfarer, with strange,Wild Voice that rouses gloomThy voice could never range,Hath broken Bread with me!No resinous, balmed shrineGlows from its core as I,When I behold His sign,And touch His offering Hand.O holiest journey, spedWith Him who died for me,Who breaking with me Bread,Is known to me as Life,Is felt by me as Fire;Who is my Way and allMy wayfaring’s Desire!
O HEART, that burns within,Illuminated, hot!O feet, that tread the roadAs if they trod it not—So lifted and so wingedBy rare companionship!No matter tho’ the roadDoth unto shadow dip;The meaning of the nightMy ears, attentive, hail.The mighty silence bringsMusic no nightingaleHath warbled from its fount;Music of holy thingsMade clear as song can make,With marvellous utterings:The Past become a joyOf instant clarity,As the deep evening fillsWith converse brimmingly.O nightingale, hold backYour wildest song’s discant;You cannot make my heartWith such devotion pantAs He who steps alongBeside me in the shade,Down the steep valley-road,The enveloping, dark glade!Hush, O dim nightingale!...Is it my God whose FeetWing mine to travel on;Whose voice in current sweetShows how divine the thoughtAnd purpose is of allThat hath been and shall be,And shall to me befall?Stay, nightingale! Behold!This Wayfarer, with strange,Wild Voice that rouses gloomThy voice could never range,Hath broken Bread with me!No resinous, balmed shrineGlows from its core as I,When I behold His sign,And touch His offering Hand.O holiest journey, spedWith Him who died for me,Who breaking with me Bread,Is known to me as Life,Is felt by me as Fire;Who is my Way and allMy wayfaring’s Desire!
I THOUGHT to lay my hands about Thy Crown,And gather, bleeding, its sharp spines:But as I knelt and bowed my forehead down,Worshipping thy cruel desert-Crown,Worshipping its thicket of sharp spines—Through them blew a little wind,Clearer than the dew in breathRound Thy Mother’s feet at Nazareth;In a cloud it left behindScent of violets, of such birthThey had never broken earth,But through meshes of the Crown of Thorn,In a fertilising cloud, were born;And, fresh with piety of grace,Were thrown—oh sweet!—unseen across my face.That never will a mould-born violet-bedSmell like the violets from the Sacred Head.
I THOUGHT to lay my hands about Thy Crown,And gather, bleeding, its sharp spines:But as I knelt and bowed my forehead down,Worshipping thy cruel desert-Crown,Worshipping its thicket of sharp spines—Through them blew a little wind,Clearer than the dew in breathRound Thy Mother’s feet at Nazareth;In a cloud it left behindScent of violets, of such birthThey had never broken earth,But through meshes of the Crown of Thorn,In a fertilising cloud, were born;And, fresh with piety of grace,Were thrown—oh sweet!—unseen across my face.That never will a mould-born violet-bedSmell like the violets from the Sacred Head.
I THOUGHT to lay my hands about Thy Crown,And gather, bleeding, its sharp spines:But as I knelt and bowed my forehead down,Worshipping thy cruel desert-Crown,Worshipping its thicket of sharp spines—Through them blew a little wind,Clearer than the dew in breathRound Thy Mother’s feet at Nazareth;In a cloud it left behindScent of violets, of such birthThey had never broken earth,But through meshes of the Crown of Thorn,In a fertilising cloud, were born;And, fresh with piety of grace,Were thrown—oh sweet!—unseen across my face.That never will a mould-born violet-bedSmell like the violets from the Sacred Head.
AS shade doth on a dial slide,Those dark and parting eyes abideToward me from the tall vessel’s side:Eyes lovelier than the stones of graceThat build for God His dwelling-place;Beyond all jewels in device,Yea, beyond amethyst in price,The hyacinth-stone in loveliness.Delectable, dear eyes that bless;A saviour’s eyes, bent down on me,As New Jerusalem might beCome down, adorned with Charity....Let the tall vessel sweep to sea!
AS shade doth on a dial slide,Those dark and parting eyes abideToward me from the tall vessel’s side:Eyes lovelier than the stones of graceThat build for God His dwelling-place;Beyond all jewels in device,Yea, beyond amethyst in price,The hyacinth-stone in loveliness.Delectable, dear eyes that bless;A saviour’s eyes, bent down on me,As New Jerusalem might beCome down, adorned with Charity....Let the tall vessel sweep to sea!
AS shade doth on a dial slide,Those dark and parting eyes abideToward me from the tall vessel’s side:Eyes lovelier than the stones of graceThat build for God His dwelling-place;Beyond all jewels in device,Yea, beyond amethyst in price,The hyacinth-stone in loveliness.Delectable, dear eyes that bless;A saviour’s eyes, bent down on me,As New Jerusalem might beCome down, adorned with Charity....Let the tall vessel sweep to sea!
A WOMAN, heavenly as dewOf the fresh morning, in a little roomIs kneeling down, and throughThe door of it an Angel’s bloomOf light, how lonely, hath advanced,And on the walls his lovely light hath danced,As he hath told God’s utter WillUnto that creature heavenly and still—God the Father’s terrible, high Will.Motions of fear and wonderThe girl sways under;Her eyes distraught, as wingsA hawk’s suspension bringsTo panic, when two dovesTremble mid their sweet loves.She sees beyond sight’s rimGod and the Power of Him;His Promise fallen on herAs grace He would confer—Men and the fear their speechMust startle should it reachA virgin’s secrecy....How can such terrors be?Then over her, distraught,Falls a contentment wroughtTo courage of a wordBy the Archangel heardWith heart’s felicity—“Be it done unto meAccording to His Will.”The little room thereafter grew more still,And Mary knelt and shoneWith grace, although the Angel’s beam was gone.This was the fairest sight God yet had looked upon—Mary, the chosen Mother of His Son,Obedient to HimAs glowing Seraphim.A lonely Man, beneath the trees,That stoop above a sward of garden-ground,Kneels in the evening breeze,Felt as flow without a sound.While He kneels in that cool place,With the moonlight settled on His face,He is praying that He may not drinkOf a Cup filled bitter to the brink,Praying in His anguish not to drink.And, in strife tremendousOf woe stupendous,He strains with power so great—As a red pomegranateThat splits and bleeds His headWith blood is scarlet-red.He struggles with the mightOf the world’s sin in sight,That He must bear if nowHe bends ensanguined brow,And drinks that awful CupBefore his eyes raised up.Sin!—us He meets the shock,Earth reddens to its rockWith blood.... Then peace from stormComes to that ruddy Form,And a brave word of GodBlows over the wet sod—“If I must drink, not mine,My will, O Father, thineBe done! Not mine, Thy Will!”The garden-shades thereafter grew more still,Because an angel came,And the red forehead whitened in his flame.This was the fairest sight God ever looked upon—Jesus, His loved, only-begotten Son,Obedient to HimAs sworded Cherubim.
A WOMAN, heavenly as dewOf the fresh morning, in a little roomIs kneeling down, and throughThe door of it an Angel’s bloomOf light, how lonely, hath advanced,And on the walls his lovely light hath danced,As he hath told God’s utter WillUnto that creature heavenly and still—God the Father’s terrible, high Will.Motions of fear and wonderThe girl sways under;Her eyes distraught, as wingsA hawk’s suspension bringsTo panic, when two dovesTremble mid their sweet loves.She sees beyond sight’s rimGod and the Power of Him;His Promise fallen on herAs grace He would confer—Men and the fear their speechMust startle should it reachA virgin’s secrecy....How can such terrors be?Then over her, distraught,Falls a contentment wroughtTo courage of a wordBy the Archangel heardWith heart’s felicity—“Be it done unto meAccording to His Will.”The little room thereafter grew more still,And Mary knelt and shoneWith grace, although the Angel’s beam was gone.This was the fairest sight God yet had looked upon—Mary, the chosen Mother of His Son,Obedient to HimAs glowing Seraphim.A lonely Man, beneath the trees,That stoop above a sward of garden-ground,Kneels in the evening breeze,Felt as flow without a sound.While He kneels in that cool place,With the moonlight settled on His face,He is praying that He may not drinkOf a Cup filled bitter to the brink,Praying in His anguish not to drink.And, in strife tremendousOf woe stupendous,He strains with power so great—As a red pomegranateThat splits and bleeds His headWith blood is scarlet-red.He struggles with the mightOf the world’s sin in sight,That He must bear if nowHe bends ensanguined brow,And drinks that awful CupBefore his eyes raised up.Sin!—us He meets the shock,Earth reddens to its rockWith blood.... Then peace from stormComes to that ruddy Form,And a brave word of GodBlows over the wet sod—“If I must drink, not mine,My will, O Father, thineBe done! Not mine, Thy Will!”The garden-shades thereafter grew more still,Because an angel came,And the red forehead whitened in his flame.This was the fairest sight God ever looked upon—Jesus, His loved, only-begotten Son,Obedient to HimAs sworded Cherubim.
A WOMAN, heavenly as dewOf the fresh morning, in a little roomIs kneeling down, and throughThe door of it an Angel’s bloomOf light, how lonely, hath advanced,And on the walls his lovely light hath danced,As he hath told God’s utter WillUnto that creature heavenly and still—God the Father’s terrible, high Will.Motions of fear and wonderThe girl sways under;Her eyes distraught, as wingsA hawk’s suspension bringsTo panic, when two dovesTremble mid their sweet loves.She sees beyond sight’s rimGod and the Power of Him;His Promise fallen on herAs grace He would confer—Men and the fear their speechMust startle should it reachA virgin’s secrecy....How can such terrors be?Then over her, distraught,Falls a contentment wroughtTo courage of a wordBy the Archangel heardWith heart’s felicity—“Be it done unto meAccording to His Will.”The little room thereafter grew more still,And Mary knelt and shoneWith grace, although the Angel’s beam was gone.This was the fairest sight God yet had looked upon—Mary, the chosen Mother of His Son,Obedient to HimAs glowing Seraphim.
A lonely Man, beneath the trees,That stoop above a sward of garden-ground,Kneels in the evening breeze,Felt as flow without a sound.While He kneels in that cool place,With the moonlight settled on His face,He is praying that He may not drinkOf a Cup filled bitter to the brink,Praying in His anguish not to drink.And, in strife tremendousOf woe stupendous,He strains with power so great—As a red pomegranateThat splits and bleeds His headWith blood is scarlet-red.He struggles with the mightOf the world’s sin in sight,That He must bear if nowHe bends ensanguined brow,And drinks that awful CupBefore his eyes raised up.Sin!—us He meets the shock,Earth reddens to its rockWith blood.... Then peace from stormComes to that ruddy Form,And a brave word of GodBlows over the wet sod—“If I must drink, not mine,My will, O Father, thineBe done! Not mine, Thy Will!”The garden-shades thereafter grew more still,Because an angel came,And the red forehead whitened in his flame.This was the fairest sight God ever looked upon—Jesus, His loved, only-begotten Son,Obedient to HimAs sworded Cherubim.
Cloud that streams its breath of unseen flowers,Cloud with spice of bay,Of roses, lily-breathings, and the powersOf small violets, or, aloft, black poplars as they quiver!Cloud that streams its song of birds—no birdSeen to chant the song:Yet wide and keen as sun-breath it is heard,All the air itself a voice of voices chiming golden!Mary hath passed by. All plants sweet-leaved,Sweet-flowered; birds, sweet-voiced,Round her passing have their sweetness weaved.Let us yield our incense up, our anthems and our homage!
Cloud that streams its breath of unseen flowers,Cloud with spice of bay,Of roses, lily-breathings, and the powersOf small violets, or, aloft, black poplars as they quiver!Cloud that streams its song of birds—no birdSeen to chant the song:Yet wide and keen as sun-breath it is heard,All the air itself a voice of voices chiming golden!Mary hath passed by. All plants sweet-leaved,Sweet-flowered; birds, sweet-voiced,Round her passing have their sweetness weaved.Let us yield our incense up, our anthems and our homage!
Cloud that streams its breath of unseen flowers,Cloud with spice of bay,Of roses, lily-breathings, and the powersOf small violets, or, aloft, black poplars as they quiver!
Cloud that streams its song of birds—no birdSeen to chant the song:Yet wide and keen as sun-breath it is heard,All the air itself a voice of voices chiming golden!
Mary hath passed by. All plants sweet-leaved,Sweet-flowered; birds, sweet-voiced,Round her passing have their sweetness weaved.Let us yield our incense up, our anthems and our homage!
SOME OF THESE POEMS HAVE BEEN PUBLISHEDIN “THE IRISH MONTHLY” ANDIN “THE ROSARY.” ONE WAS PUBLISHEDIN “THE UNIVERSE.”
SOME OF THESE POEMS HAVE BEEN PUBLISHEDIN “THE IRISH MONTHLY” ANDIN “THE ROSARY.” ONE WAS PUBLISHEDIN “THE UNIVERSE.”
SOME OF THESE POEMS HAVE BEEN PUBLISHEDIN “THE IRISH MONTHLY” ANDIN “THE ROSARY.” ONE WAS PUBLISHEDIN “THE UNIVERSE.”
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