Jesus:

                                    O Mother dear, didst thou but hear

                                    My plaint of desolation,

                                    Thy tender heart would burst apart

                                    With grief of separation!

                                    I am not stone, yet all alone

                                    I hush My soul’s outcrying, --

                                    Alone to tread the wine-press red,

                                    To bear the pain of dying.

                                    My lips are dumb, the night has come;

                                    Ah! Solace I might borrow

                                    Had I but thee to bide with Me

                                    In this wild waste of sorrow.

                                    Mary:

                                    “Gentle moon and start of midnight,

                                    Day’s fierce orb, and brooklets fair,

                                    Golden apples born of sunshine,

                                    Precious pearls and jewels rare, --

                                    All things glorious, all things shining,”

                                    Thus the sorrowing Mother spake;

                                    “E’en ye bright, transfigured faces,

                                    Mourn with me for Jesus’ sake.

                                    “Sparkle, gleam, and glow no longer:

                                    Only moan and mourn for Him.

                                    Shine not, shine not, weep forever,

                                    Till your thousand eyes are dim;

                                    For the mighty One has fallen,

                                    And my Beautiful is slain;

                                    In the dense wood pierced, my Shepherd, --

                                    Weep ye, weep ye for my pain!

                                    O most oppressed of all oppressed,

                                    Heart of my heart, my all, my Son!

                                    Grief’s keenest sword doth pierce my breast:

                                    I die with Thee, my only one!

                                    Alas! the pain is all too great,

                                    Since, living, still I share Thy fate.

                                    “Yes, mine Thou wert to bear and rear

                                    Through life and light, and pain and loss;

                                    And now, ten thousand times more dear,

                                    I yield Thee to the cruel cross!”

                                                            Frederick Spee, S. J. (1591-1635)

                                                            Translated  from the German by

                                                                                    Mary E. Mannix

For Reflection:

Today I stand at the foot of the Cross with Mary my mother. What pain, sorrow, suffering, trial, contradiction do I yield to the “cruel cross?” How does Mary give me guidance in this surrender?