Good Friday

                                    Dialogue At The Cross


                                    O Mother dear, didst thou but hear

                                    My plaint of desolation,

                                    Thy tender heart would burst apart

                                    With grief of separation!


                                    I am not stone, yet all alone

                                    I hush My soul’s outcrying, —

                                    Alone to tread the wine-press red,

                                    To bear the pain of dying.


                                    My lips are dumb, the night has come;

                                    Ah! Solace I might borrow

                                    Had I but thee to bide with Me

                                    In this wild waste of sorrow.



                                    “Gentle moon and start of midnight,

                                    Day’s fierce orb, and brooklets fair,

                                    Golden apples born of sunshine,

                                    Precious pearls and jewels rare, —

                                    All things glorious, all things shining,”

                                    Thus the sorrowing Mother spake;

                                    “E’en ye bright, transfigured faces,

                                    Mourn with me for Jesus’ sake.


                                    “Sparkle, gleam, and glow no longer:

                                    Only moan and mourn for Him.

                                    Shine not, shine not, weep forever,

                                    Till your thousand eyes are dim;

                                    For the mighty One has fallen,

                                    And my Beautiful is slain;

                                    In the dense wood pierced, my Shepherd, —

                                    Weep ye, weep ye for my pain!

                                    O most oppressed of all oppressed,

                                    Heart of my heart, my all, my Son!

                                    Grief’s keenest sword doth pierce my breast:

                                    I die with Thee, my only one!

                                    Alas! the pain is all too great,

                                    Since, living, still I share Thy fate.


                                    “Yes, mine Thou wert to bear and rear

                                    Through life and light, and pain and loss;

                                    And now, ten thousand times more dear,

                                    I yield Thee to the cruel cross!”


                                                            Frederick Spee, S. J. (1591-1635)

                                                            Translated  from the German by

                                                                                    Mary E. Mannix

For Reflection:

Today I stand at the foot of the Cross with Mary my mother. What pain, sorrow, suffering, trial, contradiction do I yield to the “cruel cross?” How does Mary give me guidance in this surrender?

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