'Father, forgive.' Oh, force Divine. Oh, cry
Which from the Lips of Jesus, verily,
Is boundless in its utterance, as He
Hath Merit boundless. Every Drop which He
Hath shed of Blood cries, 'Pardon,' endlessly.
Lo, in the heart of Mary tenderly
This prayer is echoed, raising her on high
In spirit to His side. All selfless, she
The Purpose recogniseth, for which He
Is hanging on that Wood of Infamy.
Doth He not speak in her, that she may be
United with Him now? Her agony
To see Him suffer hindereth not that she
The Cause remembereth: and - a moment - see,
She prayeth for that Felon, fervently.
He too had uttered words of blasphemy,
Not knowing what he did. But doth not she
Remember when the Sacred Infancy
Was sheltered in that Robber's cave? Oh, see,
For him she prays: 'Let him forgiven be.'
The light of grace hath chased the density
Of ignorance which filled his breast; and see,
To his companion on the Gibbet, he
Speaks words of deep import, reprovingly:
'Worthy are we to suffer, but not He.'
Grace conquers: from the Cross the Culprit, he
The King of Kings acknowledgeth - saith he:
'Oh, in Thy Kingdom, Lord, remember me.'
And Mary's heart respondeth: is not she
His Co-redemptrix? - saved upon that Tree?
And Jesus speaks. That Face in Agony
Turns not upon the penitent: yet He
Straight on his heart His Virtue pours, to be
His Strength and Healing. 'Verily,' saith He,
'Art thou this day in Paradise with Me.'
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote