104
MEDIÆVAL HYMNS.
Not that this Thou feltest more
Than that bitter tension:
But that thirst Thou wouldst express
For lost man's invention.
Calling on Thy Father's Name
Thy last breath was spended:
And Thy Spirit in His Hands
Gently was commended:
With a loud and mighty cry
Then Thy Head was bended:
And the work, that brought Thee down,
Of Salvation ended.
But by heart and thought of man
That is past conceiving
How the Virgin Mother's soul
Inmostly was grieving
When the soldier's bitter lance
That dear Side was cleaving:
Cruel mark upon His frame
Of its passage leaving.
That blest form could feel no more
Whence had life departed:
'Twas the Mother's anguished soul
