Hopefully we will soon have a page dedicated to the seven dolors Patricia.
The Seven Dolors
September's golden grain doth wave,
O'er fields all ripe for reaper's scythe ;
The hunter's moon with silver laves
The earth — and nature's voice is blithe
But minor strains are in our hearts,
As mem'ry wakens o'er and o'er,
The thought of sorrow's seven darts
Which she the Queen of Martyrs bore.
The grave and gay doth nature blend,
'Mid storm and sunshine life is passed ;
And so the Passion tide doth send
Its shadow even to the last.
The glorious autumn has its shade.
As well as spring time, glad and bright;
The shadow of the cross is laid
In "pearly dawn" and evening light.
And eyes of love can e'er discern.
The form of her to sorrow wed;
Beneath the cross, and from her learn.
The story of her sorrow dread.
Whose hand hath sent the cruel dart.
So keen, so cold, with aim so sure?
Ah ! your's and mine transfixed the heart
Of Mater Dolorosa pure.
Be ours the oil to heal her wounds,
Be ours the wine to give her strength ;
Be ours the voice that ever sounds
In love and pity, till at length,
The cruel swords of sorrow deep,
Our love will draw from out her breast ;
And there in peace and joy we'll weep,
With Mater Dolorosa rest.
- Dolores, New York.