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 
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