A SOUL’S HOLY WEEK.
PALM SUNDAY.
What shall I spread beneath thy feet, dear Lord,
Meek Son of David drawing near to-day
With wide hearts’ worship for thy king’s array,
With love’s full measure for thy blessing poured?
How shall my weakness its deep longing prove?
Not mine the martyr’s fadeless branch of palm,
Nor mine the priestly olive giving balm,
For hearts’ consoling, healing wounds with love.
Alas! not mine baptismal robe unstained
To offer thee with pure and child-like trust:
Dark are its folds with clinging wayside dust.
Yet even this poor raiment, world-profaned,
Thou wilt not scorn, since veils it heart contrite
Grieving so sore its trespass in thy sight.
MONDAY.
Rabbi, one little moment only, wait
Till I kneel down and wet with tears of shame
Thy blessed feet, thy garment’s sacred hem—
O thou so long unheeded, loved so late!
Let me pour forth the ointment of my soul,
The precious store wherewith thou fill’st my vase,
My love’s devotion and my sorrow’s grace;
Withholding naught from thee that givest all.
The more I give the richer grows my share,
Since unto thee one cannot give and lose.
Thou givest e’er; we but thy gifts diffuse.
Worthless all gold unless thy stamp it bear.
Worthless my tears unless their source be thee:
What gem shall, then, outshine their purity?
TUESDAY.
I dare not wish that my life’s days had been
When thou, O Christ! didst come in human guise
As seeming weak as poorest child that lies
On mother’s breast in infant sleep serene;
When thou the Father’s wisdom unto men
Didst speak with lips of little more than child;
Didst preach the kingdom of the undefiled;
Didst pardon sin and pity human pain.
I know thee now, although I have not seen.
Perchance in those old days I had denied,
With Bethlehem’s matrons turned my face aside,
Spurned from my threshold heaven’s chosen Queen,
And—O dread thought!—my God a mockery made,
Even as Judas with a kiss betrayed!
WEDNESDAY.
“Thy Saviour cometh.” O my soul, behold!
Arise and greet Him smitten for thy sin,
Wounded for thee the Father’s grace to win,
True Shepherd, stricken for the frightened fold.
Art thou asleep, my soul? Art thou afraid
To meet the sorrow of that face despised?
Ah! see the love with which thy love is prized:
He bleeds for thee that hast so oft betrayed;
His soul is sorrowful to death for thee,
For thee is borne the crown of pitying thorn,
For thee his people’s cruel taunts are borne,
Carried the heavy cross to Calvary.
He weeps thy sins: weep thou his infinite woe.
What have we done that he should love us so?
HOLY THURSDAY.
Was’t not enough, dear Lord, that thou shouldst give
Thy body to the scourge, the thorn, the reed,
That thou in dark Gethsemani shouldst bleed,
The purple garment from rude hands receive,
But that thou still must give thyself to bear
New stripes, new Calvary in that dim life
That is our refuge in the weary strife
Earth offers all who seek thy life to share?
O Love divine! was’t not enough to hold
Thine own so dear thou lovedst to the end,
Deep-wounded hands on Calvary to extend,
Seeking poor earth in Love’s wide arms to fold,
But still thou giv’st thyself, Love’s sacrament,
As with thy love and sorrow uncontent?
GOOD FRIDAY.
Dear Mother, unto thee I come to-day,
Because I dare not look upon the face
Of Him in whose least wound my sins I trace:
Dear Mother, for his love’s sake bid me stay.
He calls: “I thirst.” Ah! offer him my tears
Repentance hath made pure of all their gall.
Tell him, who nothing has would offer all,
But yet to bring the gift unworthy fears,
Lest so some added thorn be wreathed within
The crown wherewith the wounded brow is bound,
The mocking people’s sovereignty’s round
That saints, with joy, shall lose all life to win.
Mother, thy Son gives me in thy fond care:
Fold thou my helpless hands in perfect prayer.
HOLY SATURDAY.
“This day in Paradise.” O fortunate thief!
What strange surprise, what happiness, was thine
In that dim land to see the Sun divine,
To win so soon the crown of late belief.
This day in Paradise! O soul released
By cleansing sign of Resurrection cross,
Earth may bewail thy Lord: thine is no loss,
With fresh forgiveness holding wealth increased.
Soul, hast thou hung on Calvary’s cross with him,
Thou, justly, like the thief, for thine offence,
Breathe thou thy prayer of humble penitence:
Glory of dawn shall break thy shadows dim,
’Mid which the Sun of Justice glad shall rise—
Poor pardoned thief!—this day in Paradise!
EASTER SUNDAY.
Through Lent, dear Lord, I seemed to walk with thee
As thy disciples once; thy tender voice,
From Mary won, making my soul rejoice
E’en through the sorrow of Gethsemani,
Though oft I wept such infinite love to grieve.
And seemed thy human life to mine so near
That ever shadowed all my joy the fear
The end must come, and thou that life must leave.
To-day with Magdalen I weep once more—
My Lord is risen and my life’s love lost.
O silly soul, on sorrow’s ocean tossed,
Does he not tell thee, as to her before,
“Be not afraid”?—to thee is he less near?
Dead, yet arisen; crucified, yet here!