Classic Poem

A voice she hears, a tender voice,
Which says: No choice, my child, no choice
Is left for thee, for me or thee.
There's naught for thee, for thee or me,
But bear the cross, the bitter cross.
The cup of woe you now must drain,
Will bring sweet gain, for you sweet gain.
Pax vobiscum, my child; Pax vobiscum!
Heaven's peace, dear maid, be thine,
For evermore!
Go seek its home at good St. Hilda's shrine;
In holy mother's ears thy sorrows pour;
Within those peaceful gates no earthly ill can come."