Door of Mercy
The singing throngs of angels crowd this place
And how can we be shielded from His rays
While winged awe bows low before His Face
Thus ravished by the arrow of His gaze?
But see! The Book is opened, and they run;
Mary with her nard; dear Peter with his tears.
The Prodigal, the bitter elder son,
The poor rich man; the thief grown hard with years.
O let the angels take us by the hand
And lead us through the ante room of grief
Where Mary, sinners’ refuge takes her stand
Beneath the Cross to share her First-born’s death.
With wounded Heart He is the Holy Door;
His Father’s Loved One, whence all mercies pour.