The following is a poem concluding "The Victories of the Martyrs", by St. Alphonsus Ligouri:
O ye who pass along the way
All joyous where with grief I pine
In pity, pause a while and say
Was ever sorrow like to mine?
See hanging here before my eyes,
This body, bloodless, bruised and torn.
Alas! It is my son who dies
Of love deserving, not of scorn.
For know this weak and dying man
Is Son of Him Who made the earth,
And me, before the world began
He chose to give Him human birth.
He is my God! And since that night
When first I saw His Infant Grace
My soul has feasted on the light,
The beauty of that heavenly face.
And now, behold this loving Son
Is dying in a woe so great,
The very stones can only moan
In sorrow at His piteous state.
Eternal Father, God of Love!
Behold Thy Son, O see His woe!
Canst Thou look down from heaven above,
And for Thy Son no pity show?
But no, that Father sees His Son
Cloth'd with our sins, our guilt and shame,
And spares not that Beloved One
Though dying on His cross of pain.
My Son, My Son, could I at least
Console Thee in this hour of death
Could I but lay Thee on my breast
And there receive Thy parting breath?
Alas! No comfort I impart.
Yea, rather this my vain regret,
But rends still more Thy loving heart
And makes Thy death more bitter yet.
Ah, loving souls! Love, love that God
Who all inflamed with love expires!
On you this life He has bestowed.
Your love is all that He desires.
All joyous where with grief I pine
In pity, pause a while and say
Was ever sorrow like to mine?
See hanging here before my eyes,
This body, bloodless, bruised and torn.
Alas! It is my son who dies
Of love deserving, not of scorn.
For know this weak and dying man
Is Son of Him Who made the earth,
And me, before the world began
He chose to give Him human birth.
He is my God! And since that night
When first I saw His Infant Grace
My soul has feasted on the light,
The beauty of that heavenly face.
And now, behold this loving Son
Is dying in a woe so great,
The very stones can only moan
In sorrow at His piteous state.
Eternal Father, God of Love!
Behold Thy Son, O see His woe!
Canst Thou look down from heaven above,
And for Thy Son no pity show?
But no, that Father sees His Son
Cloth'd with our sins, our guilt and shame,
And spares not that Beloved One
Though dying on His cross of pain.
My Son, My Son, could I at least
Console Thee in this hour of death
Could I but lay Thee on my breast
And there receive Thy parting breath?
Alas! No comfort I impart.
Yea, rather this my vain regret,
But rends still more Thy loving heart
And makes Thy death more bitter yet.
Ah, loving souls! Love, love that God
Who all inflamed with love expires!
On you this life He has bestowed.
Your love is all that He desires.
