Classic Poem

Rare is the heart that in its utmost sorrow,
Finds not another heart to share its woe,
And presage rainbow colours for the morrow—
And God above is kind to hearts below.

Alone: who is alone? The criminal dying,
Though steeped in shameful crimes all through and through,
Will leave some heart that trusted, spite his lying—
Some loving heart that, spite his sins, was true.

The mother from whose sight the cold grave closes
Her son's fair eyes—on whose heart falls the clod
That strikes on him, and crushes her life's roses,
Has still her comfort; for she has her God.

But Mary, near the cross, was of all mothers—
Of all her race, in truth, the most alone:
Her grief, her woe, was not the woe of others;
Nor like to others did she make her moan.

She stood, transfixed, heart-pierced and tearless, gazing
Up through the twilight to the thorn-crowned head,
Whose sacred brow was scarred, whose eyes were glazing,
And saw her not; for he, her God, was dead.

What sorrow like to hers, I ask ye, brothers?
What sorrow like to hers have our hearts known?
Our grief has sharers—half is borne by others;
But Mary bore her crushing woe alone.