Mary

Daughter of dreams and visions, Flushed by the world’s desire, Empress of priests’ decisions, Priestess of altar fire-- Treading a march immortal, As the Cross to the sunrise swings, Passing the inmost portal, Over the crowns of kings-- By the worship with which we woo thee, By the hymns that our hearts repeat, By the flames that have burned unto thee, By the prayers that have warmed thy feet, By the moons that have risen below thee, By the stars that have set on thy brow, By the saints that have suffered to know thee, We hail thee “Blessed,” now.

Mother of all the Sorrows, Pierced by the world’s despair, Wearing a veil that borrows Gloom from our earthly air; Broken by ceaseless sighing, Ravaged by endless tears, Bearing thy pangs undying Into the dying years-- By the sweat on thy brow that paleth, By the Cross where thy heart has lain, By memory’s pang that naileth Thy heart to the wood again, By the passions that rise below thee, By the sorrows enthroned on thy brow, By the hearts that have broken to know thee, We hail thee “Blessed,” now.