Poems for Holy Week
Callaghan, Gertrude & Walsh, Thomas & Conant, Isabel Fiske & Scollard, Clinton
April 7, 1926 THE COMMONWEAL 607 Mater Dolorosa Stood the Mother in her anguish By the Cross whereon did languish, Clenched with nails, her Son and Lord; While her spirit's...
...For the sins of generations Christ she sees mid flagellations, And the pains He must endure...
...Therefore He came Back to one in April Like a lily-flame...
...Blessed Mother, this, oh, fashion That the wounds of Cross and Passion Be fixed firmly on my heart ; That the scars thy Son is bearing Find me worthily preparing To assume an humble part...
...Motherâsource of love's affection...
...I found life victor over death...
...Mary moved toward Him Like a woman from an urn, She swayed like a lily-stem Where white flowers burn...
...I have been up to Nazareth...
...While her spirit's desolation, Sorrowing and lamentation Felt the piercing of the sword...
...Golden of anther, Chrysoprase of stem, White rose of the lilies, And He rose with them...
...Who is he whose eyes are tearless, Witnessing Christ's Mother peerless, Dolorous and so alone...
...Grant me Christ to bear as mournerâ In His sufferings, sojournerâ Impress of His wounds to keep...
...And her weepingâand her grieving...
...I have been up to Nazareth...
...Weeping with thee in affliction At the direful crucifixion All the days I live below, 'Neath the Cross with thee in sorrow Portion of thy grief to borrow In the cataclysmic blow...
...I have been up to Nazareth Upon its hills so high and fair...
...April 7, 1926 THE COMMONWEAL 607 Mater Dolorosa Stood the Mother in her anguish By the Cross whereon did languish, Clenched with nails, her Son and Lord...
...Translated from the Latin by Thomas Walsh...
...Oh, how mournful and distressed Stood she there, who was the Blessed Mother of the Promised One...
...May I, by the Cross protected, Through the death of Christ elected, Be anointed unto grace...
...Pilgrim, what found you there...
...Sees the Son her breast did cherish Desolate and doomed to perish, Giving up His spirit pure...
...0ypress from Gethsemane They are bringing cypress from Gethsemane To plant beneath a California sunâ Tradition of an early century Narrowed within the shadow of each one...
...When the body's day is ended Be my soul by thee attended To the Paradisial place...
...Caster at Nazareth I have been up to Nazareth, To Nazareth of Galilee...
...Let me share in thy abjection, Let my tears be joined to thine...
...Scars like His for my salvationâ Crosses for inebriation In thy Son, my Jesus' loveâ Flamed amid the radiance splendid, Let me be by thee defended On that Judgment Day above...
...Where shall they plant them but upon a hill, This group of ancient watchers, dark and still...
...Pilgrim, what found you there...
...I think they sway there Safe upon a stem, I hear: "Be unwilling To touch them...
...The gesture of a land with spices blown, A garden where a vigil once was kept By cypress trees while other watchers slept And One bled out His agony alone...
...Pilgrim, what found you there...
...I have been up to Nazareth...
...Clinton Scollard...
...Never beside gay orange groves sun-drenched, Nor where the giant redwoods gird new land...
...Where will they plant these aliens they have wrenched From old-world truthâwhere will these mourners stand...
...Christ has a garden Of many a lad and lassâ Petals brushed with pollen When the winds pass...
...Virgin of all Virgins brightest, Grant the plea thou never slightestâ Let me stand with thee and weep...
...Pilgrim, pray tellâwhat found you there...
...Gertrude Callaghan...
...Tang ere Christ loves a garden...
...one saith: A faith in immortality Where One divine drew mortal breath...
...Set my heart aglow with burning Unto Christ my God in yearning So to calm thy breast benign...
...one saith...
...I have been up to Nazareth, ' And trod the winding streets He trod...
...And her trembling at perceiving There her First-Born's Passion...
...one saith: A sentience as though of God That still my soul companioned...
...Who is he who would not share her Mother pangs, such griefs prepare her As she stands and mourns her Own...
...Isabel Fiske Conant...
Vol. 3 • April 1926 • No. 22
