In Roman purple robed, and none divined
The holy mystery in those folds enshrined—
The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.
Such was his portion here; with thee he shares
His grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned—
Fair in the light of truth thy brows around—
With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprears
His wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength!
What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes?
Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies;