The Passion of Mary

O Lady Mary, thy bright crown
Is no mere crown of majesty;
For with the reflex of His own
Resplendent thorns Christ circled thee.

The red rose of this passion-tide
Doth take a deeper hue from Thee,
In the five Wounds of Jesus dyed,
And in thy bleeding thoughts, Mary.

The soldier struck a triple stroke
That smote thy Jesus on the tree:
He broke the Heart of hearts, and broke
The Saint’s and Mother’s hearts in thee.

Thy Son went up the angel’s ways.
His Passion ended; but, ah me!
Thou found’st the road of further days
A longer Way of Calvary.

On the hard cross of hope deferred,
Thou hungst in loving agony,
Until the mortal-dreaded word
Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee.

The angel Death, from this cold tomb
Of life, did roll the stone away;
And He thou bearest in thy womb
Caught thee at last into the day-
Before the living throne of whom
The lights of heaven burning pray.

O thou who dwellest in the day,
Behold, I pace amidst the gloom;
Darkness is ever, round my way
With little space for sunbeam-room.

Yet Christian sadness is divine,
Even as thy patient sadness was:
The salt tears in our life’s dark wine
Fell in it from the saving Cross.

Bitter the bread of our repast;
Yet doth a sweet bitter leaven:
Our sorrow is the shadow cast
Around it by the light of heaven!
O Light in light, shine down from heaven!