VII.

So once in Pilate’s hall thy Master stood In Roman purple robed, and none divined The holy mystery in those folds enshrined―― The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood. Such was his portion here; with thee he shares His grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned―― Fair in the light of truth thy brows around―― With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprears His wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength! What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes? Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies; That faith is thine that has been all the length Of centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er; And on thy bosom writ I read――_Amor_.