Virgin Mary to Christ on the Cross, The. 
By Southwell, Robert. 


What mist hath dimmed that glorious face!
What seas of grief my sun doth toss!
The golden rays of heavenly grace
Lies now eclipsed on the cross.

Jesus! my Love, my Son, my God,
Behold Thy mother washed in tears;
Thy bloody wounds be made a rod
To chasten these my latter years.

You cruel Jews, come work your ire
Upon this worthless flesh of mine;
And kindle not eternal fire
By wounding Him which is divine.

Thou messenger that didst impart
His first descent into my womb,
Come, help me now to cleave my heart,
That there I may my Son entomb.

You angels all, that present were
To show His birth with harmony,
Why are you not now ready here
To make a mourning symphony?

The cause I know: you wail alone,
And shed your tears in secrecy,
Lest I should moved be to moan
By force of heavy company.

But wail, my soul, thy comfort dies;
My woeful womb, lament thy fruit;
My heart, give tears unto my eyes,
Let Sorrow string my heavy lute.