Most gentle Christ, Companion and the Way,
the hill of Calvary is drenched with tears;
your servant, here, is torn, alone, like prey — of carrion.
My soul – your handmaid – fears.
All-cooling Fountain, slaking end of thirst,
the desert paths are combat; sin destroys.
Your little one, assailed and caught, is cursed — by death.
My spirit fails beneath its ploys.
O never-failing presence in the wars,
the hosts of Hell assault, and ne’er are spent;
but royal priests advance on evil shores — and cliffs,
by aid of Blessed Sacrament.
The bloody strife — the fight of wondrous Christianity —
goes ever on; but you are here, in this insanity.


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