Fourth Hour, 79

I saw a light from a casement.

And entered a lowly door, Where a woman, stricken and mournful,

Sat in sackcloth on the floor.

There Mary, the mother of Jesus,

And John, the beloved one. With a few poor friends beside them.

Were mourning for Him that was gone.

And before the mother was lying

That crown of cruel thorn. Wherewith they crowned that gentle brow

In mockery that mom.

And her ears yet ring with the anguish

Of that last dying cry, — That mighty appeal of agony

That shook both earth and sky.