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Irish Jesuit Province
A Crucifix in a Sick RoomAuthor(s): Rose MetcalfeSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 29, No. 337 (Jul., 1901), pp. 374-375Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20499775 .
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374 THE IRISH MONTHLY
We trust that what we have said will be sufficient to excite the
pious interest of our readers, and make them sometimes seek in
thought this hallowed spot to pray for the more or less benighted
country in which it lies. Our Blessed Lady will not turn a deaf
ear to their petitions, mindful of even the little hospitality she
received there in the days of her earthly sojourn, for even in
Egypt are to be found kind hearts, and doubtless always were,
even in the reign of the worst of the Pharaohs, of him " who
knew not Joseph." God has His chosen souls everywhere, even
in the benighted and luxurious Egypt, that land " where the sun
shines for ever, and breezes blow soft from the sea." Alas ! that
there should be so maany there who know of and wish no higher
m.orality tLan that of the Koran, and who honour the sensual
Mabomet as a prophet and saint-the equal, if not the superior, of
Mary's Divine Son !
D. G.
A CRUCIFIX IN A SICK ROOM
WHY dost Thou hang there pierced and pale
With drooping, woe-encompassed head, And wide, appealing arms, pain-fixed,
Hour after hour beside my bed?
When midnight's heavy spell lies deep Upon the earth, and nameless fears
Sweep o'er the soul; and pains clutch tight,
When brims the cup of mourners' tears
I hear Thy wounded hand that knocks; I see Thee hang; my sorrows cease
In Thine; and all alone with Thee, I weep for love: Thou breathest, "Peace."
And when the shadowy dawning steals
Across the world, and night is done, A King on that strange throne Thou seem'st,
To whom our night and day are one;
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A CRUCIFIX IN A SICK ROOM 375
A priest, who, ever pleading, stands Betwixt the living and the dead:
A princely Victim who can bear
A whole world's sins upo-n Thy head.
So, 'twixt the darkness and the light
I creep beneath Thy sheltering goal;
And bow to feel the dropping slow
Of that sweet Blood upon my soul.
Thou holdest the secret in Thy heart
Of death and love-the pain and bliss;
My soul would hear Thy silence speak;
For deep are words, but deeper this.
The dawn and darkness meet and part
Fresh light is born; old shadows fly;
And still Thou hangest there, as if
Thy only pleasure were to die.
My pains are Thine; I bring them Thee;
And pressed upon Thy heart divine,
Bundles of fragrant myrrh they seem, And tinctured with Thy blood they shine.
Ah! who but Thou would e'er have thought
To win us by such wiles divine?
Thou knewest our hearts could not resist
That sweet, strange, dying look of Thine.
How shall I love Thee? Teach me how:
Love such as this must find its bent-;
My heart is small, but Thou, sweet Lord,
Wilt take its best, and be content.
O sacred head! 0 precious wounds!
O waiting Heart that drawest nigh! Into the deep sea of Thy love
I cast my soul to live and die.
RosE METCALFE.
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