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Cruel Herod, black Sin,
With seven swords you pursue
The Innocents, the which am I
In my five senses—and, forbidden
Behold me, alas! myself to defend!
The clay with which God
formed them,
Their feebleness, on those sad ways
By which the Innocents I trace
Where in Rama they massacred them,
Betray their age too tender.
No flight. But my Savior
Taking on my doom and death,
Lives in Egypt whence he departeth
Betimes for the signal favor
Of giving up his wealth
Of days and thought to my joy
Eternal, and, by the action
Sure of absolution
From his priest unto him, the Lord,
Resuscitates my ravished flesh.
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