 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
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A WORD FROM THE CROSS
‘He saith unto His Mother, Woman, behold thy son.’—
—John xix. 26.
—John xix. 26.
This is the Sword, the Sword long prophesied,
(‘Yea, it shall pierce through thine own soul also.’)
‘I came upon the earth,’ He said Himself,
‘To bring a sword, not peace.’ John, the beloved,
Beheld the vision in the after days:
‘Out of His mouth went a sharp two-edged sword.’
But he had heard it first: he hears it now,
In these dividing words—Behold thy son,
Woman,—from dying lips, that first of all
Hung on thy breasts, whose last kiss has been given,
And whose last word to thee now sunders thee
From thy supreme and solitary bond,
And opens through thine agonising heart
Th' immortal wound of vaster agonies.
(‘Yea, it shall pierce through thine own soul also.’)
‘I came upon the earth,’ He said Himself,
‘To bring a sword, not peace.’ John, the beloved,
Beheld the vision in the after days:
‘Out of His mouth went a sharp two-edged sword.’
But he had heard it first: he hears it now,
In these dividing words—Behold thy son,
Woman,—from dying lips, that first of all
Hung on thy breasts, whose last kiss has been given,
And whose last word to thee now sunders thee
From thy supreme and solitary bond,
And opens through thine agonising heart
Th' immortal wound of vaster agonies.
‘This then I leave thee; I depart from thee;
I go unto the Father: My first cry,
My first soft cry was thine, and hushed by thee
Upon thy happy bosom: My last cry
Is to the Father, rends the earth apart,
Heaving with awful planetary throes;
And more than this, rends Me away from thee;
And more than all, rends thy own soul in twain,
No longer Mother of the Only Son.’
I go unto the Father: My first cry,
My first soft cry was thine, and hushed by thee
Upon thy happy bosom: My last cry
Is to the Father, rends the earth apart,
Heaving with awful planetary throes;
And more than this, rends Me away from thee;
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No longer Mother of the Only Son.’
Woman, beneath whose feet the reeling chasm
Reaches to Adam in his burial-place;
He who first named the Woman, and in Eden
Called her the Mother of all Living, Eve,—
(That was in Eden, in the first of days:)—
Now the last days begin, on Calvary.
And thou, in sickening shocks, hour after hour,
Through every fibre of thy living flesh
And soul, absorbed in single motherhood,
Hast mingled with the Passion of thy Child
Thy Passion, and with fainting feet hast trod
The long and bleeding way; and felt the end
Still, still, so far; and stiffenest now within
Immeasurable lengths of agony,
Alone with Him upon the whole world's peak
And pinnacle of pain, and canst no more:—
Now, even, O Woman, doth begin, not end,
Thy bitterer Passion, now from thy Beloved
Break the low, tortured words, heard but by thee,
Calling thee to a mightier martyrdom.
Reaches to Adam in his burial-place;
He who first named the Woman, and in Eden
Called her the Mother of all Living, Eve,—
(That was in Eden, in the first of days:)—
Now the last days begin, on Calvary.
And thou, in sickening shocks, hour after hour,
Through every fibre of thy living flesh
And soul, absorbed in single motherhood,
Hast mingled with the Passion of thy Child
Thy Passion, and with fainting feet hast trod
The long and bleeding way; and felt the end
Still, still, so far; and stiffenest now within
Immeasurable lengths of agony,
Alone with Him upon the whole world's peak
And pinnacle of pain, and canst no more:—
Now, even, O Woman, doth begin, not end,
Thy bitterer Passion, now from thy Beloved
Break the low, tortured words, heard but by thee,
Calling thee to a mightier martyrdom.
O human motherhood, that now dissolves,
With human life dissolving, in the flame
Of that diviner, more mysterious Love
Of the Dove of Heaven that overshadowed thee
With wings wherein the wind herself had bound;
Thyself unto thyself at last revealed,—
The Virgin of the World, a veiled, dim dream,
The Mother of all Living Things that were,
Great Vestal Goddess of the East and West,
Worshipped at every hearth-fire in the world,
Cried on through every hour of woman's woe,
Mysteriously foreshadowed and foreknown,
Throned in the upper and the nether sphere,
Star of the Sea, and Mistress of the Moon!
With human life dissolving, in the flame
Of that diviner, more mysterious Love
Of the Dove of Heaven that overshadowed thee
With wings wherein the wind herself had bound;
Thyself unto thyself at last revealed,—
The Virgin of the World, a veiled, dim dream,
The Mother of all Living Things that were,
Great Vestal Goddess of the East and West,
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Cried on through every hour of woman's woe,
Mysteriously foreshadowed and foreknown,
Throned in the upper and the nether sphere,
Star of the Sea, and Mistress of the Moon!
Now, but a death-pale woman on the height
Of Calvary, and nought left thee but one hour
Of mortal anguish with thy Crucified,
Now hast thou come to the Mount of Sacrifice,
Now, through interminable night and day,
Givest thou back the Father this thy Lamb;
And he, in the hour of need supreme and drear,
Surrenders thee, yes, even thee, at last.
And still beyond this gulf of bitterness,
Which thou, though standing here, mayst cross no more,
Thou yet shalt hear His cry at uttermost
Of dereliction, passed beyond thy reach,
‘My God, my God, thou hast forsaken Me!’
Forsaken He, yet not forsaking thou.
Of Calvary, and nought left thee but one hour
Of mortal anguish with thy Crucified,
Now hast thou come to the Mount of Sacrifice,
Now, through interminable night and day,
Givest thou back the Father this thy Lamb;
And he, in the hour of need supreme and drear,
Surrenders thee, yes, even thee, at last.
And still beyond this gulf of bitterness,
Which thou, though standing here, mayst cross no more,
Thou yet shalt hear His cry at uttermost
Of dereliction, passed beyond thy reach,
‘My God, my God, thou hast forsaken Me!’
Forsaken He, yet not forsaking thou.
This is the travail of the second Eve:
In the postponed, yet long-anticipate
Hour of thy sorrow, and the bitter Sea.
Thou to whose youth the long-drawn agonies
And labour of the mortal child bearer
Were spared, that all the floods at once should burst
Over thy head fore-doomed, and sweep thee down,
Down past the nethermost blackness of the pit,
To the deep that lieth under
from all time,
And from the deluge, dark, illimitable,
Should rise a race new-born, whose Mother art thou.
In the postponed, yet long-anticipate
Hour of thy sorrow, and the bitter Sea.
Thou to whose youth the long-drawn agonies
And labour of the mortal child bearer
Were spared, that all the floods at once should burst
Over thy head fore-doomed, and sweep thee down,
Down past the nethermost blackness of the pit,
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And from the deluge, dark, illimitable,
Should rise a race new-born, whose Mother art thou.
Strong is thy travail, and the race to be
Dies, or is born, in thy maternal pangs.
Are we to live, O Mother? Shall we lie
Unquickened, Motherless? Thy great Reply,
Thy Fiat, in the morning of thy days,
Brought Heaven to earth, brought thee thy crown of life;
When the Day-star of the Orient shined on men,
To give the light to those that sat in the dark
And shadow of death, the light that through this hour
Is flickering down in uttermost struggle with Death.
Dies, or is born, in thy maternal pangs.
Are we to live, O Mother? Shall we lie
Unquickened, Motherless? Thy great Reply,
Thy Fiat, in the morning of thy days,
Brought Heaven to earth, brought thee thy crown of life;
When the Day-star of the Orient shined on men,
To give the light to those that sat in the dark
And shadow of death, the light that through this hour
Is flickering down in uttermost struggle with Death.
O Mother! Mother! comes thy children's cry,
The far-off cry of children numberless,
Borne to thee on the summit of thy woes;
Mingling in new and multitudinous plaint
With hollow groan, and breaking of the heart.
Shuddering, thy vision opens on the streams
Of millenarial wreck and wretchedness,
Swarming, converging, from the whole globe's face;
Sinful, degraded, horrible, distraught.
'Tis for thy bosom that they make appeal,
That has known none but Beauty Itself till now,
Lovely, the shrine of very Loveliness.
Dost thou refuse, recoil, at this extreme,
Confronted with this overwhelming call?
Hast thou then motherhood to spare for these,
And all their miserable, unknown want,
In a succession without end? And thou,
Immaculate Mother of the Son of God,
Most Blissful Mother of the Heavenly Babe,
Most tender Mother of the Child that grew
In wisdom and in stature at thy side,
Most mournful Mother of the Son of Man,
Suffering the two-fold horror of birth and death,
Henceforward Mother of the Sons of Men.
The far-off cry of children numberless,
Borne to thee on the summit of thy woes;
Mingling in new and multitudinous plaint
With hollow groan, and breaking of the heart.
Shuddering, thy vision opens on the streams
Of millenarial wreck and wretchedness,
Swarming, converging, from the whole globe's face;
Sinful, degraded, horrible, distraught.
'Tis for thy bosom that they make appeal,
That has known none but Beauty Itself till now,
Lovely, the shrine of very Loveliness.
Dost thou refuse, recoil, at this extreme,
Confronted with this overwhelming call?
Hast thou then motherhood to spare for these,
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In a succession without end? And thou,
Immaculate Mother of the Son of God,
Most Blissful Mother of the Heavenly Babe,
Most tender Mother of the Child that grew
In wisdom and in stature at thy side,
Most mournful Mother of the Son of Man,
Suffering the two-fold horror of birth and death,
Henceforward Mother of the Sons of Men.
‘Behold thy Mother!’—the last spoken word
To the disciple,—interchange of loss
And gain unequal through all after-days.
And the disciple, from that hour, 'tis said,
Claimed as his own, and took, the gift of God.
But thy acceptance without note or word
Passes,—no need to signify the same.
To the disciple,—interchange of loss
And gain unequal through all after-days.
And the disciple, from that hour, 'tis said,
Claimed as his own, and took, the gift of God.
But thy acceptance without note or word
Passes,—no need to signify the same.
‘But oh! for one word more,—for one last kiss
Upon those writhing feet, clasped yet alive,
Yet once, my son!’—but no—no murmur falls
From thy sad lips down all the centuries.
Mute, motionless, dost thou receive the thrust
Of this Annunciation; hid within
The three hours' darkness over all the earth.
Only thy silence through the ages stands.
Upon those writhing feet, clasped yet alive,
Yet once, my son!’—but no—no murmur falls
From thy sad lips down all the centuries.
Mute, motionless, dost thou receive the thrust
Of this Annunciation; hid within
The three hours' darkness over all the earth.
Only thy silence through the ages stands.
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