Father, is this the hour of desolation?
The one you know and of which I warn.
In my holy place an abomination,
Will my Church be still-born?
Is this the day the world swore:
“Blessed be the barren women,
the womb that never bore,
And their breasts never nursing.”
I see two boys in the meadow playing,
A shadow falls and one is taken.
I see two girls in my temple spinning,
One is gone and the sanctum shaken.
The iron nails pierce my bride,
Her veil is torn from top to bottom.
The rusted lance rends my side,
Has my Mother’s “Yes” been forgotten?