What mist hath dimmed that glorious face! What seas of grief my sun doth toss! The golden rays of heavenly grace Lies now eclipséd on the cross. Jesus! my Love, my Son, my God, Behold Thy mother washed in tears; Thy bloody wounds be made a rod To chasten these my latter years. You cruel Jews, come work your ire Upon this worthless flesh of mine; And kindle not eternal fire By wounding Him which is divine. Thou messenger that didst impart His first descent into my womb, Come, help me now to cleave my heart, That there I may my Son entomb. You angels all, that present were To show His birth with harmony, Why are you not now ready here To make a mourning symphony? The cause I know; you wail alone And shed your tears in secrecy, Lest I should movéd be to moan By force of heavy company. But wail, my soul, thy comfort dies; My woeful womb, lament thy fruit; My heart, give tears unto my eyes, Let Sorrow string my heavy lute. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BROKEN PITCHER by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET by WILLA SIBERT CATHER HYMN OF THE EARTH by WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING (1817-1901) LEMON PIE by EDGAR ALBERT GUEST MOLLY PITCHER [JUNE 28, 1778] by LAURA ELIZABETH HOWE RICHARDS DESCRIBES THE PLACE WHERE CYNTHIA IS SPORTING HERSELF by PHILIP AYRES VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN A BURIAL-GROUND .. SOCIETY OF FRIENDS by BERNARD BARTON |