The Work is done: this world is ransomed: He
No more need suffer on the dreadful Tree.
Death comes not unsolicited, for see,
Tranquil in dying as in living, He
Yields of Himself His Soul and sets it free.
'Father,' quoth He, 'My Soul I render Thee,
Into Thy Hands;' so saying with a cry,
The Soul of Jesus passeth: wondrously
Convulsed is Nature that her God should be -
Him her Creator - dead, upon that Tree.
The mountains shake from summit to the sea;
And Earth's foundations, lo, interiorly
Tremble and quake. In the Catastrophe
Rent is the Temple's Veil. No more shall be
Jerusalem His Seat - eternally.
No; for the Work is done; the World will be
The Temple of the Holy One, where He
Shall place His Altars; and, in Mystery,
This self-same Sacrifice will offered be
Till Earth be filled as waters fill the sea.
The Soul of Jesus passeth. Suddenly,
Like sunlight streaming through the cloud doth He
Appear in Limbo. Tender radiancy
Those doleful prisons fills, and gloriously
All in their midst He shines - to set them free.
He comes to preach deliverance; comes to be
To them Messias: Conqueror is He
Of Death and Limbo. They His Glory see
And straightway worship: darkness changeth He
To light: and penitence to ecstasy.
And Mary meekly waits with John to see
What next betides: all else are gone but she
And those dear faithful Women. Yet is He
Not left as others; for the Lance would be
Witness to that great Death on Calvary.
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote