A crimson surcoat aptly suits victorious
kings. This royal victor, as a joke,
is clothed by mocking soldiers in a cloak
that rightly marks him both a prince and glorious.
O precious purple drops, so fill my head
that, as I contemplate your mystery,
you draw a thousand crimson tears from me,
my eyes dyeing these Carmelite robes red.
Your bloody hue attests our sins are tied
to the Lamb’s back by the Father, and Christ takes
our crimes upon his shoulders for our sakes.
O Christ, O holy Lamb, consent to hide
all my red sins (hell’s birch rods) deep within
the bloody folds of the mantle of your skin.
Jean de La Ceppède (c. 1548–1623)
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
How Activism Gets Funded (ft. John Sailer)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, John Sailer joins…
Back Room to Boardroom
England’s best-groomed town is Darlington, Yorkshire. Data from Britain’s Office of National Statistics show that in 2024,…
Epstein’s Revelations
Far from a mere sordid distraction or an endless supply of tabloid slop, the Epstein files may…
