Classic Poem

There is a sadness in thy very name,
Chosen by holy monks in ways unknown.
Thou dost refresh, but, ah! not that alone,
Dull wormwood lingers in thy ruddy flame.

Made warm by thee, the heart feels full of shame,
The merry birds of jocund thought have flown,
And, as by magic, meditative grown,
The mind no more can peace or pleasure claim.

For then I dream that in departed years,
On Calvary when the dark day was drear,
Shrouded by angry Heaven's supreme eclipse,
Thou, to assuage the suffering Saviour's tears,
Wert brutally tendered on a Roman spear,
In the foul sponge that withered His sweet lips!