O Lord, the wilderness to me
A very paradise shall be,
Since Thou for forty days wast there,
In fasting, solitude and prayer.
Unworthy though these feet to rest
On ground Thy footsteps once have blest,
The way of sorrows shall be mine,
Made sweet because it first was Thine.
Lord, let me find some lowly place
Where I may seek Thy pitying face,
And plead with Thee by Olivet,
By agony, and bloody sweat.
Some quiet aisle or dim recess
Shall make for me a wilderness;
And surely angels shall be there
To wait on penitence and prayer.
Nor is this all: for I would know
The depth of shame, the crown of woe
Stand by the stricken Mother’s side,
While Thou art mocked and crucified.
And then in hours of saddest gloom
I still will watch around Thy tomb,
Till with the day new joy be born,
And Thou shalt rise on Easter morn.
O blessèd thought, that faith can see
In every altar—Calvary,
Find there the loving arms outspread,
And fall before the fallen Head.
Come King of kings, come Light of light:
The Bride awaits the day all bright,
When she shall lift, her mourning o’er,
The shout of Paschal joy once more.