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Palm Sunday 2007
Lauda
Jesus, whoso with Thee
Hangs not in pain and loss,
Pierced on the cruel cross,
At peace shall never be.
Lord, unto me be kind;
Give me that peace of mind
Which in this world so blind
And false, dwells but with Thee.
Give me that strife and pain,
Apart from which 'twere vain
Thy love on earth to gain
Or seek a share with Thee.
If, Lord, with Thee alone
Heart's peace and love be known,
My heart shall be Thine own,
Ever to rest with Thee.
Here in my heart be lit
Thy fire, to feed on it,
Till, burning bit by bit,
It dies to live with Thee.
Jesus, whoso with Thee
Hangs not in pain and loss,
Pierced on the cruel cross,
At peace shall never be.
Girolamo Beniveni (1453-1542)
tr. from Italian by John Addington Symonds
The Catholic Anthology: The World's Great Catholic Poetry (1940), ed. Thomas Walsh and George N. Shuster, pp. 129f.
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The Beloved
When the storm was in the sky,
And the west was black with showers,
My Beloved came by
With His Hands full of flowers—
Red burning flowers,
Like flame that pulsed and throbbed—
And beyond in the rain-smitten bowers
The turtle-dove sobbed.
(Sweet in the rough weather
The voice of the turtle-dove—
"Beautiful altogether
Is my Love.
His Hands are open spread for love
And full of jacinth stones—
As the apple-tree among trees of the grove
Is He among the sons."
The voice of the turtle-dove
Sweet in the wild weather—
"Until the daybreak dwells my Love
Among the hills of Bether.
Among the lilied lawns of Bether,
As a young hart untired—
Chosen out of thousands,—altogether
To be desired.")
When the night was in the sky,
And heavily went the hours,
My Beloved drew nigh
With His Hands full of flowers—
Burning red flowers
Like cups of scented wine—
And He said, "They are all ours,
Thine and Mine.
"I gathered them from the bitter Tree—
Why dost thou start?
I gathered the Five of them for thee,
Child of My Heart.
These are they that have wrung my Heart,
And with fiercest pangs have moved Me—
I gathered them—why dost thou shrink apart?
In the house of them that loved Me."
(Sweet through the rain-swept blast
The moan of the turtle-dove—
"You, that see Him go past,
Tell Him I languish with love.
Thou hast wounded my heart, O my Love!
With but one look of Thine eyes,
While yet the boughs are naked above
And winter is in the skies.")
"Honey-laden flowers
For the children nursed on the knee,
Who sow not bramble among their bowers—
But what" He said "for thee?
Not joys of June for thee,
Not lily, no, nor rose—
For thee the blossom of the bitter Tree,
More sweet than ought that blows."
(The voice of the turtle-dove—
"How shall my heart be fed
With pleasant apples of love,
When the winter time has fled,
The rain and the winter fled,
How all His gifts shall grace me,
When His Left Hand is under my head,
And His Right Hand doth embrace me.")
May Probyn
The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse (1917), ed. D. H. S. Nicholson and A. H. E. Lee, pp. 404ff.
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Holy Sonnets XIX
Oh, to vex me, contraryes meet in one:
Inconstancy unnaturally hath begott
A constant habit; that when I would not
I change in vowes, and in devotione.
As humorous is my contritione
As my profane Love, and as soone forgott:
As ridlingly distemperd, cold and hott,
As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.
I durst not view Heav'n yesterday; and to day
In prayers, and flatt'ring speeches I court God:
Tomorrow I quake with true feare of his rod.
So my devout fitts come and go away,
Like a fantastique Ague: save that here
Those are my best dayes, when I shake with feare.
John Donne
The Complete English Poems (1985), ed. C. A. Patrides, p. 447.
(See also modernized.)
Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Sun. 04/01/07 06:56:30 AM
Categorized as Literary & Religious.
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