The Fellowship of Suffering.
Thy cruel crown of Thorns!
But where, O Lord, is mine?
Are there for me no scoffs and scorns,
Since only such were Thine? Or, having named Thy name,
Shall I no burden take?
And is there left no thorn, no shame,
To suffer for Thy sake? Unscourged of any whip,
Unpierced of any sting,—
O Lord, how faint my fellowship
With Thy sad suffering! Yet Thy dread sacrifice
So fills my heart with woe,
That all the fountains of mine eyes
Well up and overflow. The spear that pierced Thy side
Gave wounds to more than Thee.
Within my soul, O Crucified,
Thy cross is laid on me! And as Thy rocky tomb
Was in a garden fair,
Where round about stood flowers in bloom,
To sweeten all the air,— So in my heart of stone
I sepulcher thy death,
While thoughts of Thee, like roses' blown,
Bring sweetness in their breath. Arise not, O my Dead!—
As one whom Mary sought,
And found an empty tomb instead,
Her spices all for nought,— O Lord, not so depart
From my enshrining breast,
But lie anointed in a heart
That by Thy death is blest. Or if Thou shalt arise,
Abandon not Thy grave,
But bear it with Thee to the skies,—
A heart that Thou shalt save!—Independent.