Classic Poem

O ye who pass along the way
All joyous, where with grief I pine,
In pity pause awhile and say,
Was ever sorrow like to mine?

See, hanging here before mine eyes,
This Body bloodless, bruised and torn —
Alas, it is my Son who dies
Of love deserving, not of scorn.

For know, this weak and dying Man
Is Son of him who made the earth;
And me, before the world began,
He chose to give him human birth.

He is my God; and since that night
When first I saw his infant grace,
My soul has feasted on the light
And beauty of that heavenly face.

For he had chosen me to be
The loved companion of his heart;
And ah, how that dear company
With love transpierced me like a dart.

And now behold, this loving Son
Is dying in a woe so great,
The very stones are moved to moan
In sorrow at his piteous state.

Where'er his failing eyes are bent,
A friend to help he seeks in vain;
All, all on vengeance are intent,
And eager to increase his pain.

Eternal Father, God of Love,
Behold, thy Son: ah, see his woe;
Canst thou look down from heaven above,
And for thy Son no pity show?

But no — that Father sees his Son
Clothed with the sins of guilty men;
And spares not that Beloved One,
Though dying on his cross of pain.

My Son, my Son, could I at last
Console thee in this hour of death;
Could I but lay thee on my breast,
And there receive thy parting breath —

Alas, no comfort I impart;
Nay rather, this my vain regret
But rends still more thy loving heart,
And makes thy death more bitter yet.

Ah, loving souls; love, love that God,
Who all inflamed with love expires;
On you his life he has bestowed;
Your love is all that he desires.