CLXXI.
In die resurrectionis dominicae venit ad sepulchrum Magdalena ferens aromata.
Quin et tu quoque busta tui Phoenicis adora;
Tu quoque fer tristes, mens mea, delicias.
Si nec aromata sunt, nec quod tibi fragrat amomum;
Qualis Magdalina est messis odora manu.
Est quod aromatibus praestat, quod praestat amomo:
Haec tibi mollicula, haec gemmea lacrymula.
Et lacryma est aliquid: neque frustra Magdala flevit:
Sentiit haec, lacrymas non nihil esse suas.
His illa, et tunc cum Domini caput iret amomo,
Invidiam capitis fecerat esse pedes.
Nunc quoque cum sinus huic tanto sub aromate sudet,
Plus capit ex oculis, quo litet, illa suis.
Christe, decent lacrymae: decet isto rore rigari
Vitae hoc aeternum mane tuumque diem.
On the day of our Lord's resurrection, the Magdalene bearing spices cometh to the sepulchre. Marc. xvi. 1; Luc. xxiv. 1.
Come thou too, thou; kneel by thy Phœnix' tomb;
Bring thy poor offerings too, my soul, and come.
With thee no herbs and fragrant spice are seen—
Such odorous tribute gave the Magdalene;
But these—no herbs nor spices equal them—
These little liquid drops, each tear a gem.
One tear is much: thine did not fall in vain,
Sweet Magdalene; thou knewest the tears were gain.
With these—her Lord's head in amomum laid—
The humble feet the head's despair she made.
Now, while her breast moist with such fragrance lies,
She in a strife draws sweeter from her eyes.
Lord Christ, these tears are well: well fits it too
Life's everlasting morn drip with such dew. A.
CLXXII.
In cicatrices Domini adhuc superstites. Luc. xxiv. 31.
Arma vides; arcus, pharetramque levesque sagittas,
Et quocunque fuit nomine miles Amor.
His fuit usus Amor: sed et haec fuit ipse; suumque
Et jaculum, et jaculis ipse pharetra suis.
Nunc splendent tantum, et deterso pulvere belli
E memori pendent nomina magna tholo.
Tempus erit tamen, haec irae quando arma pharetramque,
Et sobolem pharetrae spicula tradet Amor.
Heu, qua tunc anima, quo stabit conscia vultu,
Quum scelus agnoscet dextera quaeque suum?
Improbe, quae dederis, cernes ibi vulnera, miles,
Qua tibi cunque tuus luserit arte furor.
Seu digito suadente tuo mala laurus inibat
Temporibus; sacrum seu bibit hasta latus:
Sive tuo clavi saevum rubuere sub ictu;
Seu puduit jussis ire flagella tuis.
Improbe, quae dederis, cernes ibi vulnera, miles:
Quod dederis vulnus, cernere, vulnus erit.
Plaga sui vindex clavosque rependet et hastam:
Quoque rependet, erit clavus et hasta sibi.
Quis tam terribiles, tam justas moverit iras?
Vulnera pugnabunt, Christe, vel ipsa tibi.
On the scars of the Lord still remaining.
Arms see—bows, quiver, arrows flying far,
And every style in which Love went to war.
These arms Love used—nay, Himself was: His own
Dart and darts' quiver was Himself alone.
Now they but shine, and, dusty battle ended,
In treasur'd glory are on high suspended.
Time comes when unto Wrath these arms, both quiver
And quiver's offspring, darts, Love will deliver.
Ah, with what thoughts, what countenance wilt thou stand
When its own guilt comes home to each right hand?
Wretch, thou wilt see the wounds which thou hast made,
And with what fatal skill thy fury play'd:
Whether with bloody wreath thy fingers plied
His temples, or thy spear drank His dear side;
Or 'neath thy blow nails turned a cruel red,
Or the scourge blush'd as at thy call it sped.
Wretch, there the wounds thou gavest thou shalt see:
To see the wound thou gav'st a wound shall be.
Stroke self-avenging follows nails and spear:
Its nail and spear of recompense are here.
Such awful righteous wrath who would excite?
Thy very wounds, O Christ, for Thee will fight. R. Wi.