SONGS OF PRAISE

DIES IRE*

DAY of wrath, that day of burning,
Seer and Sibyl speak concerning,
All the world to ashes turning.

Oh, what fear shall it engender,
When the Judge shall come in splendor,
Strict to mark and just to render!

Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder,
Rending sepulchers asunder,
Shall resistless summons thunder.

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,
He'll unfold all here occurring,
Vengeance then no more deferring.

What shall I say, that time pending?
Ask what advocate's befriending,
When the just man needs defending?

Dreadful King, all power possessing,
Saving freely those confessing,
Save thou me, O Fount of Blessing!

*For the original of this poem see page 3569.

Think, O Jesus, for what reason,

Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason,
Nor me lose in that dread season!

Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted,
On the cross Thy soul death tasted:
Let such travail not be wasted!

Righteous Judge of retribution!
Make me gift of absolution
Ere that day of execution!

Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken,
On my cheek shame's crimson token:
Let the pardoning word be spoken!

Thou, who Mary gav'st remission,
Heard'st the dying Thief's petition,
Cheer'st with hope my lost condition.

Though my prayers be void of merit,
What is needful, Thou confer it,
Lest I endless fire inherit.

Be there, Lord, my place decided
With Thy sheep, from goats divided,
Kindly to Thy right hand guided!

When the accursed away are driven,
To eternal burnings given,

Call me with the blessed to heaven!

I beseech Thee, prostrate lying,
Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing,
Care for me when I am dying!

Day of tears and late repentance,
Man shall rise to hear his sentence:
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

3529

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
Was that favored and most blessèd
Mother of the only Son,

Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving,
While perceiving, scarce believing,
Pains of that Illustrious One!

Who the man, who, called a brother,
Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother
In such deep distress and wild?
Who could not sad tribute render
Witnessing that mother tender
Agonizing with her child?

For His people's sins atoning,
Him she saw in torments groaning,
Given to the scourger's rod;
Saw her darling offspring dying,
Desolate, forsaken, crying,

Yield His spirit up to God.

Make me feel thy sorrow's power,
That with thee I tears may shower,
Tender mother, fount of love!
Make my heart with love unceasing
Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing
I may be to Him above.

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-
Depths unbounded for me sounded-
All the pangs with me divide.

Make me weep with thee in union;
With the Crucified, communion

In His grief and suffering give;
Near the cross, with tears unfailing,
I would join thee in thy wailing
Here as long as I shall live.

Maid of maidens, all excelling!
Be not bitter, me repelling;

Make thou me a mourner too;
Make me bear about Christ's dying,
Share His passion, shame defying;
All His wounds in me renew.

Wound for wound be there created;
With the cross intoxicated

For thy Son's dear sake, I pray—
May I, fired with pure affection,
Virgin, have through thee protection
In the solemn Judgment Day.

Let me by the cross be warded,
By the death of Christ be guarded,
Nourished by divine supplies.
When the body death hath riven,
Grant that to the soul be given

Glories bright of Paradise.

Translated from the Latin of Jacopone da Todi by

Abraham Coles [1813-1891]

COME, Holy Ghost! thou fire divine!
From highest heaven on us shine!
Comforter, be Thy comfort mine!

*For the original of this poem see page 3572.

Veni, Sancte Spiritus

Come, Father of the poor, to earth;

Come, with Thy gifts of precious worth;
Come, Light of all of mortal birth!

Thou rich in comfort! Ever blest

The heart where Thou art constant guest,
Who giv'st the heavy-laden rest.

Come, Thou in whom our toil is sweet,
Our shadow in the noonday heat,

Before whom mourning flieth fleet.

Bright Sun of Grace! Thy sunshine dart
On all who cry to Thee apart,
And fill with gladness every heart.

Whate'er without Thy aid is wrought,
Or skilful deed, or wisest thought,
God counts it vain and merely naught.

O cleanse us that we sin no more,
O'er parched souls Thy waters pour;
Heal the sad heart that acheth sore.

Thy will be ours in all our ways;
O melt the frozen with Thy rays;
Call home the lost in error's maze.

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 find in death our happiness,.

And dwell with Thee in lasting bliss!

3531

Translated from the Latin of Robert II. of France by

Catharine Winkworth [1827-1878]