Saint Rev. Father Robert Southwell (1561 - 1595) : "The Virgin Mary To Christ On The Cross"

What mist hath dimm'd that glorious face?

What seas of grief my sun doth toss?

The golden rays of heavenly grace

Lies now eclipsed on the cross.



Jesus, my love, my Son, my God,

Behold Thy mother wash'ed in tears:

Thy bloody wounds be made a rod

To chasten these my later years.



You cruel Jews, come work your ire 

Upon this  worthless flesh of mine,

And kindle not eternal fire

By wounding Him who is divine.



Thou messenger that didst impart 

His first descent into my womb,

Come help me now to cleave my heart,

That there I may my Son entomb.



You angels, all that present were

To show His birth with harmony,

Why are you not now ready here,

To make a mourning symphony?



The cause I know you wail alone,

And shed your tears in secrecy,

Lest I should moved be to moan,

By force of heavy company.



But wail, my soul, thy comfort dies,

My woful womb, lament thy fruit;

My heart give tears unto mine eyes,

Let sorrow string my heavy lute.




Fr. Robert Southwell's poems - LUMINARIUM 
Saint Rev. Fr. Robert Southwell  Forty Martyrs of England and Wales

the messenger