Ballade of Poor Souls

SWEET Christ, who gavest Thy blood for us,
Tho’ we have missed its healing grace,
And by temptations tenebrous,
Come all to meet in the Evil Place:
Turn not from us Thy tender face,
Now when the Pit yawns foul and sheer;
All, think how long th’ Eternal Space —
And Hell hath been our portion here!

Poor souls are we that might not climb,
Ensnared by the world’s iron gin;
Yet have we known the Tale Sublime
Of Him who died our souls to win.
And ofttimes we were sick of sin,
Yea, heard that call so sweet and clear,
But sank again our toils within —
For Hell hath been our portion here!

Strong bonds of circumstance have made
The Prison-House that held us fast;
And some have cursed and some have prayed,
But few the outer doors have passed:
And some do watch with mien aghast,
The while their fellows flout and fleer,
But hope leaves all alike at last —
For Hell hath been our portion here!

Yet God’s o’er all—and Christ doth know
Why this unequal doom we bear,
That some, like plants, in virtue grow,
And others damn themselves with care:
Mayhap His providence is there,
The Riddle Dark at last to clear,
And change to hope this Fell Despair —
For Hell hath been our portion here!

Sweet Mary’s Son, turn not from us,
Tho’ we have missed Thy saving grace,
And by temptations tenebrous,
Come all to meet in the Evil Place:
Thy mercy shall our sins efface,
E’en at the Pit’s mouth yawning sheer,
For pity of our woeful case —
Since Hell was aye our portion here!