_In vulnera Dei pendentis._
O frontis, lateris, manuumque pedumque cruores;
O quae purpureo flumina fonte patent:
In nostram, ut quondam, pes non valet ire salutem,
Sed natat; in fluviis, ah, natat ille suis.
Fixa manus; dat, fixa: pios bona dextera rores
Donat, et in donum solvitur ipsa suum.
O latus, o torrens; quis enim torrentior exit
Nilus, ubi pronis praecipitatur aquis?
Mille et mille simul cadit et cadit undique guttis
Frons: viden' ut saevus purpuret ora pudor?
Spinae hoc irriguae florent crudeliter imbre,
Inque novas sperant protinus ire rosas.
Quisque capillus it exiguo tener alveus amne,
Hoc quasi de rubro rivulus oceano.
O nimium vivae pretiosis amnibus undae:
Fons vitae nunquam verior ille fuit.
_On the wounds of our crucified Lord._
O bleeding wounds of brow, feet, hands, and side;
Rivers which from a purple fount spread wide.
No more to save us now that foot can go,
But swims in streams which from its own wounds flow.
Transfix'd His hand yet gives--gives dewdrops holy,
And into its own gift is melted wholly.
O side, O torrent; for with torrent strong
What flooded Nile more swift is driven along?
Drops from His brow in thousands fall and fall;
See to His face a cruel blush they call.
By this sad shower the thorns unkindly nurst
Soon into new-blown roses hope to burst.
Each hair becomes a slender streamlet's bed,
As if a rivulet from this ocean red.
O waves too much alive with precious streams,
Nowhere a fount of life more truly gleams.[55] R. WI.