Claudio Salvucci: In Memory of Christina Rossetti

In Memory of Christina Rossetti
(1830-1894)

Atop the Vine my rose does grow,
the Paschal sap does turn her cheek;
a Sacred Heart enthorned below
sheds its Blood when she is weak.
Her warming sun was slow to come
adoring rains too long away,
her heart of frost was too long numb:
O Jesus, nourish her.

So modest was her Christian craft,
of earnest creed and tender verse,
a self-strict soul who little laughed
but bore with grace a wordly curse.
So thoughtful grave in Dante’s screen,
she lived in Christ, a patient bride
a virgin posed for Virgin Queen,
O Jesus, comfort her.

Sweet rose, the clock has fell away,
you sing the songs of saintly rest,
and touch and handle every day
dreams once nursed inside your breast.
The lowest place to sit and sup
you humbly asked for Heaven’s feast.
The Host for love has moved you up,
O Jesus, welcome her.

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