Think, O Jesus, for what reason,
Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason,
Nor me lose in that dread season!
Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted,
On the cross Thy soul death tasted:
Let such travail not be wasted!
Righteous Judge of retribution!
Make me gift of absolution
Ere that day of execution!
Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken,
On my cheek shame's crimson token:
Let the pardoning word be spoken!
Thou, who Mary gav'st remission,
Heard'st the dying Thief's petition,
Cheer'st with hope my lost condition.
Though my prayers be void of merit,
What is needful, Thou confer it,
Lest I endless fire inherit.
Be there, Lord, my place decided
With Thy sheep, from goats divided,
Kindly to Thy right hand guided!
When the accursed away are driven,
To eternal burnings given,
Call me with the blessed to heaven!
I beseech Thee, prostrate lying,
Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing,
Care for me when I am dying!
Day of tears and late repentance,
Man shall rise to hear his sentence:
Him, the child of guilt and error,
Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror!
Translated from the Latin of Tommaso di Celano by
Abraham Coles [1813-1891]
STABAT MATER DOLOROSA * STOOD the afflicted mother weeping, Near the cross her station keeping
Whereon hung her Son and Lord; Through whose spirit sympathizing, Sorrowing and agonizing,
Also passed the cruel sword.
Oh! how mournful and distressèd
Was that favored and most blessed
Mother of the only Son,
Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving,
While perceiving, scarce believing,
Pains of that Illustrious One!
Who the man, who, called a brother,
Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother
In such deep distress and wild?
Who could not sad tribute render
Witnessing that mother tender
Agonizing with her child?
For His people's sins atoning,
Him she saw in torments groaning,
Given to the scourger's rod;
Saw her darling offspring dying,
Desolate, forsaken, crying,
Yield His spirit up to God.
Make me feel thy sorrow's power,
That with thee I tears may shower,
Tender mother, fount of love!
Make my heart with love unceasing
Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing
I may be to Him above.
Holy mother, this be granted,
That the slain one's wounds be planted
Firmly in my heart to bide.
*For the original of this poem see page 3571.
Of Him wounded, all astounded-
Depths unbounded for me sounded-
All the pangs with me divide.
Make me weep with thee in union;
With the Crucified, communion
In His grief and suffering give;
Near the cross, with tears unfailing,
I would join thee in thy wailing
Here as long as I shall live.
Maid of maidens, all excelling!
Be not bitter, me repelling;
Make thou me a mourner too;
Make me bear about Christ's dying,
Share His passion, shame defying;
All His wounds in me renew.
Wound for wound be there created;
With the cross intoxicated
For thy Son's dear sake, I pray—
May I, fired with pure affection,
Virgin, have through thee protection
In the solemn Judgment Day.
Let me by the cross be warded,
By the death of Christ be guarded,
Nourished by divine supplies.
When the body death hath riven,
Grant that to the soul be given
Glories bright of Paradise.
Translated from the Latin of Jacopone da Todi by
Abraham Coles [1813-1891)
VENI, SANCTE SPIRITUS
COME, Holy Ghost! thou fire divine!
From highest heaven on us shine!
Comforter, be Thy comfort mine!
*For the original of this poem see page 3572.
Come, Father of the poor, to earth;
Come, with Thy gifts of precious worth;
Come, Light of all of mortal birth!
Thou rich in comfort! Ever blest
The heart where Thou art constant guest,
Who giv'st the heavy-laden rest.
Come, Thou in whom our toil is sweet,
Our shadow in the noonday heat,
Before whom mourning flieth fleet.
Bright Sun of Grace! Thy sunshine dart
On all who cry to Thee apart,
And fill with gladness every heart.
Whate'er without Thy aid is wrought,
Or skilful deed, or wisest thought,
God counts it vain and merely naught.
O cleanse us that we sin no more,
O'er parched souls Thy waters pour;
Heal the sad heart that acheth sore.
Thy will be ours in all our ways;
O melt the frozen with Thy rays;
Call home the lost in error's maze.
And grant us, Lord, who cry to Thee,
And hold the Faith in unity,
Thy precious gifts of charity;
That we may live in holiness,
And find in death our happiness,
And dwell with Thee in lasting bliss!
Translated from the Latin of Robert II. of France by
Catharine Winkworth [1827-1878]
VENI, CREATOR SPIRITUS
CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come visit every pious mind,
Come pour thy joys on human-kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free,
And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire,
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and thy sacred unction bring,
To sanctify us while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy seven-fold energy!
Thou strength of His Almighty hand,
Whose power does heaven and earth command!
Proceeding Spirit, our defense,
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, O, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control,
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then lay thy hand and hold them down.
Chase from our minds the infernal foe,
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive,
And practise all that we believe;
Give us thyself, that we may see
The Father, and the Son, by thee.
*For the original of this poem see page 3573
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