Amphora

AMPHORA IV ROM winter’s bleak and bitter prison Up-surges the delighted spring. The tomb is broke ; the LORD is risen. Hail ! Thou anointed King ! Now, O Thou pitiful and pallid, Who to the cross didst cleave and cling, Thy tears to life from death have rallied Thy SON, the Holy King ! Eater of flesh and soul and spirit, The Lord of Hell on dropping wing His doom of dolour doth inherit From our anointed King. See ! headlong where he reels and plunges To the abyss, a noisome thing ! He falls ! Our sin Thy SON expunges ! Thy SON, the Holy King ! Then, O thou mildest maiden mother, Thou feedest us ! our crowns we fling Here at Thy feet, who art no other Than Lady of our King F 27