About thee rise the cries of blinded hate,
Thou seest afresh the wounds of Jesus flow;
His cross thy palm, his words sublime thine too—
“Father, forgive; they know not what they do.”
IV.
As said Lacordaire, of the rosary,
That love must ever its own speech repeat
That, ever murmured, groweth e’er more sweet,
So, seeking long some gift to bring to thee
On this high day that keeps thy years of gold—