J. Neruda (1834–1891)
She quickly gained what she had asked,
To church then sped away:
Jesus, stretched upon the cross,
Before the altar lay.
“See, I bathe Thy holy side,
Thy breast with ointment smear,
Thy dear wounds will heal again,
Jesu sweet, my dear.
Fresh leaves from the woods I lay
Upon Thy forehead sore,
The piercing fever’s heat shall burn
Thy dear head no more.”
The great bells on the church’s top
Their summons loud are pealing.
The people gather, strike their breasts,
Before the wonder kneeling.
What her childish dream had willed
By the grace of God fulfilled.
That village still an image keeps
Of the Saviour born.
There are no wounds upon His side,
Upon His brow no thorn.
On all His body lilies white
Shining, as at dawn.
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