Three Crosses

There were three crosses on the hill, Three shadows downward thrown; O Mary Mother, heard you not The other mothers’ moan?

Your Son--he was the Holy One Whom angels comforted; They touched his lips with heavenly wine In those dark hours of dread!

For him all nature mourned; the sun Veiled its resplendent face; Darkness and tumult for his sake Filled all the awful space.

And you--the sword that pierced your heart Grave prophets had foretold; You saw the crown above the cross, Clear shining as of old!

O Mary Mother, sitting now Enthroned beside your Son, You knew even then the glorious end For which the deed was done!

You saw the ages bending low In homage at his feet; You heard the songs of triumph, And the music piercing sweet.

Three crosses on dark Calvary’s hill, Three awful shadows thrown; Three mothers, faint with anguish sore, Making to God their moan.

But they, those other mothers, who Bent down to comfort them? They cowered afar; they had not dared To touch your garment’s hem.

Even if in mockery, your Son Was crowned and hailed as king; While theirs--disgraced, dishonored they, Past all imagining!

They loved like you; their sons had lain Like yours in sinless rest, Cradled to slumber, soft and deep, On each fond, faithful breast.

Yet now the terror and the shame, The agony untold, The deathless mother-love, unquenched By horrors manifold!

Three crosses on the dreadful hill, Three shadows downward thrown; Mother of Sorrows, thou hast borne Not one sharp pang alone!