Holy Saturday 2007
Prayer to the Crucifix
Almighty God, unchangeable,
Who framed the universe entire
Thy truth to see;
Thou who for loving us so well
Didst in Thine agony expire
Since with such suffering didst deign
To make amend for our transgression,
O Agnus Dei.
Placed with the thief let us obtain
Salvation in his grief's confession:
Mossén Juan Tallante (late 15th century)
tr. from Spanish by Thomas Walsh
The Catholic Anthology: The World's Great Catholic Poetry (1940), ed. Thomas Walsh and George N. Shuster, p. 143.
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The Beatific Vision
Betwixt the dawning and the day it came
Upon me like a spell,
While tolled a distant bell,
A wondrous vision but without a name
In pomp of shining mist and shadowed flame,
Before me seemed to open awful Space,
And sheeted tower and spire
With forms of shrouded 'tire
Arose and beckoned with unearthly grace,
I felt a Presence though I saw no face
But the dark rolling fire.
And then a Voice as sweet and soft as tears
But yet of gladness part,
Thrilled through my inmost heart,
Which told the secret of the solemn years
And swept away the clouds of gloomy fears,
The riddles raised by art;
Till all my soul was bathed with trembling joy
And lost in dreadful bliss,
As at God's very kiss,
While the earth shrivelled up its broken toy,
And like a rose the heavens no longer coy
Laid bare their blue abyss.
The giant wheels and all the hidden springs
Of this most beauteous globe,
Which man may never probe,
Burst on me with a blaze of angel wings
And each bright orb that like a diamond clings
To the veiled Father's robe:
I saw with vision that was more than sight,
The levers and the laws
That fashion stars as straws
And link with perfect loveliness of right,
In the pure duty that is pure delight
And to one Center draws.
I knew with sudden insight all was best,
The passion and the pain,
The searching that seem vain
But lead if by dim blood-stained steps to Rest.
And only are the beatings of God's Breast
Beneath the iron chain;
I knew each work was blessèd in its place,
The eagle and the dove,
While Nature was the glove
Of that dear Hand which everywhere we trace,
I felt a Presence though I saw no face,
And it was boundless Love.
Frederick William Orde Ward (b. 1843)
The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse (1917), ed. D. H. S. Nicholson and A. H. E. Lee, pp. 344f.
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All night had shout of men, and cry
Of woeful women filled His way;
Until that noon of sombre sky
On Friday, clamour and display
Smote Him; no solitude had He,
No silence, since Gethsemane.
Public was Death; but Power, but Might,
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter'd dark, the secrecy.
And all alone, alone, alone,
He rose again behind the stone.
Poems (1923), ed. Wilfrid Meynell, p. 94.
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Holy Sonnets XI
Spit in my face you Jewes, and pierce my side,
Buffet, and scoffe, scourge, and crucifie mee,
For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd, and onely hee,
Who could do no iniquitie, hath dyed:
But by my death can not be satisfied
My sinnes, which passe the Jewes impiety:
They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I
Crucifie him daily, being now glorified;
Oh let mee then, his strange love still admire:
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment.
And Jacob came cloth'd in vile harsh attire
But to supplant, and with gainfull intent:
God cloth'd himselfe in vile mans flesh, that so
Hee might be weake enough to suffer woe.
The Complete English Poems (1985), ed. C. A. Patrides, p. 441.
(See also modernized.)
Lane Core Jr. CIW P Sat. 04/07/07 02:45:31 PM
Categorized as Literary & Religious.