Life's sorrows, with inexorable power, Sweep desolation o'er this mortal plain; And human loves and hopes fly as the chaff Borne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain. Ah! when before that blast my hopes all flee, Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee! Between the mysteries of death and life Thou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining; We ask, and thou art silent; yet we gaze, And our charmed hearts forget their drear complaining. No crushing fate, no stony destiny, O Lamb that hast been slain, we find in thee! The many waves of thought, the mighty tides, The ground-swell that rolls up from other lands, From far-off worlds, from dim, eternal shores, Whose echo dashes on life's wave-worn strands, This vague, dark tumult of the inner sea Grows calm, grows bright, O risen Lord, in thee! Thy piercéd hand guides the mysterious wheels; Thy thorn-crowned brow now wears the crown of power; And when the dread enigma presseth sore, Thy patient voice saith, "Watch with me one hour." As sinks the moaning river in the sea In silver peace, so sinks my soul in thee! [Illustration] V. FOURTH HOUR. THE SORROWS OF MARY. DEDICATED TO THE MOTHERS WHO HAVE LOST SONS IN THE LATE WAR. I SLEPT, but my heart was waking, And out in my dreams I sped, Through the streets of an ancient city, Where Jesus, the Lord, lay dead. He was lying all cold and lowly, And the sepulchre was sealed, And the women that bore the spices Had come from the holy field. There is feasting in Pilate's palace, There is revel in Herod's hall, Where the lute and the sounding instrument To mirth and merriment call. "I have washed my hands," said Pilate, "And what is the Jew to me?" "I have missed my chance," said Herod, "One of his wonders to see. "But why should our courtly circle To the thought give further place? All dreams, save of pleasure and beauty, Bid the dancers' feet efface." * * * * * I saw a light from a casement, And entered a lowly door, Where a woman, stricken and mournful, Sat in sackcloth on the floor. There Mary, the mother of Jesus, And John, the belovéd one, With a few poor friends beside them, Were mourning for Him that was gone. And before the mother was lying That crown of cruel thorn, Wherewith they crowned that gentle brow In mockery that morn. And her ears yet ring with the anguish Of that last dying cry,-- That mighty appeal of agony That shook both earth and sky. O God, what a shaft of anguish Was that dying voice from the tree!-- From Him the only spotless,-- "Why hast Thou forsaken me?"