Deeper and deeper in that Agony
The waves close over Jesus. Outwardly
A fever racks His frame, and inwardly
A fever of desire: still hangeth He
Darkling upon the height of Calvary.
No succouring Angel's kind benignity
In His dire Passion may accorded be,
Seeming bereft of His Divinity.
Manhood alone is passible - yet He
Dieth the death - a God-Man on the Tree.
He speaks again: 'I thirst.' Oh, bitter cry
Wrung from the lips of human misery.
Oh, cry of pain exceeding: yet 'twould be
For the conversion of our souls, that He
Utters that cry of deadly agony.
They reach the sponge and vinegar, and He
Meekly receives it: so the end would be
At hand when He alone all prophecy
Shall have fulfilled: lo now, scarce audibly
He murmurs: 'It is finished.' - Heu, mihi.
But Mary hears. She knows the hour is nigh
When death shall bring release: with Him to die
Would be her bliss; but ah, that may not be;
Her's is a living death; in which is she
Alone upon the height of Calvary.
Well knows she 'All is finished.' And a sigh,
As once before, escapes her lips: ah why?
Her soul with Joseph's communes inwardly.
He knows that all is done: that she stands by
The dying Lamb on Blood-stained Calvary.
A thrill of supernatural potency
Like an electric shock, convulsively
Breaks through the caves of Limbo: suddenly
Tremble its strong foundations. Lo, they be
Prisoners of Hope, in full expectancy.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote