Hymn on the day of the Seven Holy Founders of the Order of Servites
When war was raging, and the town
Was red with blood of brother bands,
Our Virgin Mother bowed her down
With bounteous hands.
Seven faithful sons she bids to share
Her dolours, all the shame and loss
Which Jesus suffered, and she bare
Beneath his Cross.
So when their Lady called, as naught
They deemed their palaces and wealth;
The mountain’s desert places sought
Far off by stealth.
For others’ sins the scourge they plied,
As they the way of penance trod;
By prayers and tears they turned aside
The wrath of God.
Token of love, the Mother’s hand
Gave to her sons the garb of woe,
Sanctioned the pious work they planned,
With wondrous show.
The vine, to spread their honours wide,
Her sprouts in winter greenly flung.
“See, those are Mary’s servants,” cried
The infant tongue.
Now to the Father thanks and praise;
To thee, O Son, the same we send.
To thee, great Spirit, through all days,
World without end. Amen.