SONGS OF PRAISE DIES IRE* DAY of wrath, that day of burning, Oh, what fear shall it engender, Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder, All aghast then Death shall shiver, And great Nature's frame shall quiver, When the graves their dead deliver. Volume, from which nothing's blotted, Evil done nor evil plotted, Shall be brought and dooms allotted. When shall sit the Judge unerring, What shall I say, that time pending? Dreadful King, all power possessing, *For the original of this poem see page 3569. Think, O Jesus, for what reason, Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason, Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted, Righteous Judge of retribution! Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken, Thou, who Mary gav'st remission, Though my prayers be void of merit, Be there, Lord, my place decided When the accursed away are driven, I beseech Thee, prostrate lying, Day of tears and late repentance, Him, the child of guilt and error, Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror! Translated from the Latin of Tommaso di Celano by Abraham Coles [1813-1891] STABAT MATER DOLOROSA * STOOD the afflicted mother weeping, Near the cross her station keeping Whereon hung her Son and Lord; Through whose spirit sympathizing, Sorrowing and agonizing, Also passed the cruel sword. Oh! how mournful and distressèd Who the man, who, called a brother, For His people's sins atoning, Yield His spirit up to God. Make me feel thy sorrow's power, Holy mother, this be granted, That the slain one's wounds be planted Firmly in my heart to bide. *For the original of this poem see page 3571. Of Him wounded, all astounded- Make me weep with thee in union; In His grief and suffering give; Maid of maidens, all excelling! Make thou me a mourner too; Wound for wound be there created; For thy Son's dear sake, I pray— Let me by the cross be warded, Glories bright of Paradise. Translated from the Latin of Jacopone da Todi by Abraham Coles [1813-1891] COME, Holy Ghost! thou fire divine! *For the original of this poem see page 3572. Come, Father of the poor, to earth; Come, with Thy gifts of precious worth; Thou rich in comfort! Ever blest The heart where Thou art constant guest, Come, Thou in whom our toil is sweet, Bright Sun of Grace! Thy sunshine dart Whate'er without Thy aid is wrought, O cleanse us that we sin no more, Thy will be ours in all our ways; And grant us, Lord, who cry to Thee, And hold the Faith in unity, Thy precious gifts of charity; That we may live in holiness, And dwell with Thee in lasting bliss! Translated from the Latin of Robert II. of France by Catharine Winkworth [1827-1878] |