THE VIRGIN MARY TO CHRIST ON THE CROSSE.

What mist hath dimd that glorious face? what seas of griefe my sun doth tosse?

The golden raies of heauenly grace lies now eclipsèd on the crosse.

Iesus! my loue, my Sonne, my God, behold Thy mother washt in teares:

Thy bloudie woundes be made a rod to chasten these my latter yeares.

You cruell Iewes, come worke your ire, vpon this worthlesse flesh of mine:

And kindle not eternall fire, by wounding Him which is diuine.

Thou messenger that didst impart His first descent into my wombe,

Come help me now to cleaue my heart, that there I may my Sonne intombe.

You angels all, that present were, to shew His birth with harmonie;

Why are you not now readie here, to make a mourning symphony?

The cause I know, you waile alone and shed your teares in secresie,

Lest I should mouèd be to mone, by force of heauie companie.

But waile my soul, thy comfort dies, my wofull wombe, lament thy fruit;

My heart giue teares unto my eies, let Sorrow string my heauy lute.

—Southwell.