On a Picture Representing the Descent From the Cross. By Raphael
Virgin Mother, Mary mild!
It was thine to see the child,
Gift of the Messiah dove,
Pure blossom of ideal love,
Break, upon the “guilty cross,”
The seeming promise of his life;
Of faith, of hope, of love, a loss,
Deepened all thy, bosom’s strife,
Brow down-bent, and heart-strings torn,
Fainting, by frail arms upborne.
All those startled figures show,
That they did not apprehend
The thought of Him who there lies low,
On whom those sorrowing eyes they bend.
They do not feel this holiest hour;
Their hearts soar not to read the power,
Which this deepest of distress
Alone could give to save and bless.
Soul of that fair, now ruined form,
Thou who hadst force to bide the storm,
Must again descend to tell
Of thy life the hidden spell;
Though their hearts within them burned,
The flame rose not till he returned.
Just so all our dead ones lie;
Just so call our thoughts on high;
Thus we linger on the earth,
And dully miss death’s heavenly birth.