by Luis G. Dato
When bruised with pain, my soul would agitate
And hearken mandates from unholy power,
To find my self in the unhallowed hour
Faithless, and Satan whispers at the gate;
When I surrender to the voice of Hate,
And base temptations on my spirit lower,
And I, succumbing cringe and fawn and cower,
Mistaking error in its guise of fate:
Your cold demeanor and the icy stare
Of centuries a faith in me inspire,
And Calvary again, the mountain bare,
Rises austere against a sky of fire,
And you, forgiving, in the gloom profound,
Mary, weeping, a heap above the ground.
