O Lady Mary, thy bright crown Is no mere crown of majesty; For with the reflex of His own Resplendent thorns Christ circled thee.
The red rose of this passion-tide Doth take a deeper hue from Thee, In the five Wounds of Jesus dyed, And in thy bleeding thoughts, Mary.
The soldier struck a triple stroke That smote thy Jesus on the tree: He broke the Heart of hearts, and broke The Saint’s and Mother’s hearts in thee.
Thy Son went up the angel’s ways. His Passion ended; but, ah me! Thou found’st the road of further days A longer Way of Calvary.
On the hard cross of hope deferred, Thou hungst in loving agony, Until the mortal-dreaded word Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee.
The angel Death, from this cold tomb Of life, did roll the stone away; And He thou bearest in thy womb Caught thee at last into the day - Before the living throne of whom The lights of heaven burning pray.
O thou who dwellest in the day, Behold, I pace amidst the gloom; Darkness is ever, round my way With little space for sunbeam-room.
Yet Christian sadness is divine, Even as thy patient sadness was: The salt tears in our life’s dark wine Fell in it from the saving Cross.
Bitter the bread of our repast; Yet doth a sweet bitter leaven: Our sorrow is the shadow cast Around it by the light of heaven! O Light in light, shine down from heaven!