 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
17
VERONICA
Thou, even thou, Veronica,
Thou hast thy part too in this day;
No Mother thou on Golgotha,
Only a stranger on the way,
Thou hast thy part too in this day;
No Mother thou on Golgotha,
Only a stranger on the way,
Or at thy own door in the street,
The street of dolours, on whose stones
Slowly went by the holy feet,
Through scornful looks, through mocking tones.
The street of dolours, on whose stones
Slowly went by the holy feet,
Through scornful looks, through mocking tones.
Those weary feet! unwounded still,
Though failing in the heavy fall,
Still steadfast pressing to the hill,
There to be pierced the last of all.
Though failing in the heavy fall,
Still steadfast pressing to the hill,
There to be pierced the last of all.
Thine still this relic of thy grief,
The linen fine as gossamer,
The white thrice-folded handkerchief,
Which speaks for evermore of her
The linen fine as gossamer,
The white thrice-folded handkerchief,
Which speaks for evermore of her
Who with her own hand wiped the sweat,
With delicate hand, and tears that flowed,
Wherewith the Holy Face was wet,
So near to death upon the road.
With delicate hand, and tears that flowed,
Wherewith the Holy Face was wet,
So near to death upon the road.
18
So near to death, and yet how far!
Thus fainting, and thus agonised,
More than three hours before Thee are;—
Within them what world's woe comprised!
Thus fainting, and thus agonised,
More than three hours before Thee are;—
Within them what world's woe comprised!
Veronica, thine hour has struck!
Thy moment comes, thy Lord draws nigh:
To each there comes one chance of luck;
Oh, watch and pray lest it pass by!
Thy moment comes, thy Lord draws nigh:
To each there comes one chance of luck;
Oh, watch and pray lest it pass by!
Blessed art thou, Veronica!
That springest from thy open door;
Woman, and Christ, upon the way
Ye meet one moment and no more;
That springest from thy open door;
Woman, and Christ, upon the way
Ye meet one moment and no more;
Amid the roaring and the din,
Where the mid-waves of fury toss,
With agony without, within,
Between the scourging and the Cross.
Where the mid-waves of fury toss,
With agony without, within,
Between the scourging and the Cross.
Beneath its crown of thorns replies
The Holy Face to thine for aye;
Deep in thy heart thy comfort lies,
Veronica, from this thy day.
The Holy Face to thine for aye;
Deep in thy heart thy comfort lies,
Veronica, from this thy day.
| The hours of the passion and other poems | |