"Dies Irae, Dies Illa"

"Dies Irae, Dies Illa"

Horror of nature, hell and death!
When a deep groan from beneath
Shall cry, "We come! we come!" and all
The caves of night answer one call.

Oh that book! whose leaves so bright
Will set the world in severe light:
Oh that Judge! whose hand, whose eye
None can endure - yet none can fly.

Ah, then, poor soul, what wilt thou say -
And to what patron choose to pray -
When stars themselves shall stagger, and
The most firm foot no more can stand?

But thou givest leave, dread Lord, that we
Take shelter from thyself in thee;
And with the wings of thin own dove,
Fly to the sceptre of thy love.

Dear Lord! remember in that day.
Who was the cause thou camest this way:
Thy sheep was strayed; and thou wouldst be
Even lost thyself in seeking me.

Shall all that labor, all that cost
Of love, and even that loss, be lost?
And this loved soul, judged worth no less
Than all that way and weariness?

Just Mercy, then, thy reckoning be
With my price, and not with me:
'Twas paid at first with too much pain,
To be paid twice, or once in vain.

Mercy, my Judge, mercy, I cry,
With blushing cheek and bleeding eye:
The conscious colors of my sin
Are red without and pale within.

Oh, let thine own soft bowels pay
Thyself; and so discharge that day.
If sin can sigh, love can forgive -
Oh, say the word, my soul shall live.

Those mercies which thy Mary found,
Or who thy cross confessed and crowned,
Hope tells my heart, the same loves be
Still alive and still for me.

Though both my prayers and tears combine,
Both worthless are, for they are mine:
But thou thy bounteous self still be;
And show thou art, by serving me.

Oh, when thy last frown shall proclaim
The flocks of goats to folds of flame,
And all thy lost sheep found shall be,
Let "Come, ye blessed," then call me.

When the dread "Ite" shall divide
Those lambs of death from thy left side,
Let those life-speaking lips command
That I inherit thy right hand.

Oh, hear a suppliant heart, all crushed
And crumbled into contrite dust!
My Hope, my Fear, my Judge, my Friend!
Take charge of me, and of my end.

R. Crashaw, Died 1650

New Series 1:47, p. 4

1841.01.23

From the Churchman: Selection from Ancient Religious Poetry