Classic Poem

Oh , Dolorous Mother with the silver tears,
That in the withered day of Jesus' pain
Received the flame of heaven-inspired prayers
Upon thy pale, ascetic lips in vain!

Thou, Israel's daughter, with white arms apart
On Death's dishevelled midnight, felt despair
Weep tears of blood upon thy broken heart
And tears of silver through thy solemn hair.

In vain thine agony grew almost sweet
With pity at His death, and vainly there
The Magdalen lavished on His wounded feet
Her lips' caress, her opulence of hair.

In vain thy Son raised Lazarus from the dust,
In vain He brake the bread and shared the wine,
In vain they wore His sign, the meek and just,
In vain He was a symbol and a shrine!

In vain! Thine image crumbles and is gone,
Thine hallowed altar is an empty sign,
And these mine unbelieving lips are stone
That kiss thy dust amid those tears of thine!