Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/52

That poor soul went lamenting,
And weeping very sore,
Till tears of blood were sprinkled,
Upon the robe she wore.
And still her gaze kept seeking,
That distant, close-shut door.

And while she wandered sadly,
And thought upon her dole,
She saw the blessed Virgin,
Who gazed upon her soul,
And asked in accents tender,
“Poor soul, what is thy dole?”

“Alas! alas!” she answered,
“My sins are very great,
I cannot enter Heaven,
My soul in Hell must wait.
Alas! alas! dear mother,
Have pity on my fate.”

The Blessed Virgin answered,
“I can do nought but pray,
Come with me, erring daughter,
Upon this narrow way.
And when we come to Heaven,
I for thy soul will pray.”

With trembling fear and anguish—
With many, many tears,
The poor soul stood and waited,
And struggled with her fears,
While the loud knock resounded,
And thundered in her ears.

Our Lord said to St. Peter,
“Go see who knocketh so?”
“My Lord, it is your Mother,
With a lost soul from woe.”
“Then let my mother enter,
But the sinful soul must go.”