Thy piercèd 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! 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 belovèd 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?" And was he of God forsaken? They ask, appalled with dread; Is evil crowned and triumphant, And goodness vanquished and dead? Is there, then, no God in Jacob? Is the star of Judah dim? For who would our God deliver, If he would not deliver him? If God _could_ not deliver,--what hope then? If he _would_ not,--who ever shall dare To be firm in his service hereafter? To trust in his wisdom or care? So darkly the Tempter was saying, To hearts that with sorrow were dumb; And the poor souls were clinging in darkness to God, With hands that with anguish were numb. . . . . . . . . In my dreams came the third day morning, And fairly the day-star shone; But fairer, the solemn angel, As he rolled away the stone. In the lowly dwelling of Mary, In the dusky twilight chill, There was heard the sound of coming feet, And her very heart grew still.