Classic Poem

On Mary's bosom pillowing his head,
Jesus hath fallen asleep:
That Mother dear, as though he had been dead,
Doth o'er her Infant weep.

She thought: ‘My Son, 'tis willed that thou shouldst die,
Slain by the hand of foes':
And then she sang, to haste the moments by,
And charm him to repose.

‘You sleep, Child; but your heart a watch doth keep,
And on your tears doth feed;
And from my sword of sorrows, e'en in sleep,
My heart doth ever bleed.

‘You sleep: your white hands tenderly recline
Upon your snowy breast;
And mine, that rock your Infancy Divine,
Can never be at rest.

‘You sleep; your eyes are closed: they keep their tears
Until the parting days:
And vainly mine, to end our many fears,
To heaven direct their gaze.

‘Ah, during his repose how beats his heart
With fear and charity:
Does he behold that keen, accursèd dart,
By which it pierced shall be?

‘My God; his brow which gory thorns shall pierce
Soon through and through, behold;
Behold his feet, his hands, which death so fierce
Shall make full quickly cold.

‘Angels of heaven, depart; my heart with dread
The sword no longer fears;
But take ye from his heart, turn from his head,
The chalice of his tears.’

The Child-God on his Mother's bosom slept,
Smiling to hear her voice:
And when of crosses spake she, as she wept,
He did the more rejoice.