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| LXXIV. | LXXIV.
THE SIXTH DOLOUR.
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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
LXXIV. THE SIXTH DOLOUR.
(Taken down from the Cross.)
The Saviour from the Cross they took:
Across His Mother's knee He lies:
She wept not but a little shook
As with dead hand she closed dead eyes.
Across His Mother's knee He lies:
She wept not but a little shook
As with dead hand she closed dead eyes.
The surface wave of grief we know:
By us its depths are unexplored:
She treads the still abyss below
Following the footsteps of her Lord.
By us its depths are unexplored:
She treads the still abyss below
Following the footsteps of her Lord.
Above her head the great floods roll:
Before her still He moves—her Hope:
And calm in heart of storm her Soul,
Calm as the whirlpool's central drop.
Before her still He moves—her Hope:
And calm in heart of storm her Soul,
Calm as the whirlpool's central drop.
117
The Saviour from the Cross they took:
Across His Mother's knee He lay:
O passers by! be still and look!
That Twain compose one Cross for aye.
Across His Mother's knee He lay:
O passers by! be still and look!
That Twain compose one Cross for aye.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |