O turn to Jesus, Mother, turn
And call him by his tend 'rest names;
Pray for the holy souls that burn
This hour amid the cleansing flames.

Ah, they have fought a gallant fight;
In death's cold arms they persevered,
And, after life's uncheery night,
The harbor of their rest is neared.

In pains beyond all earthly pains,
Favourites of Jesus, there they lie,
Letting the fire wear out their stains,
And worshipping God's purity.

They are the children of thy tears;
Then hasten, Mother, to their aid;
In pity think each hour appears
An age while glory is delayed.

Ah, me! The Love of Jesus yearns
O'er that abyss of sacred pain,
And, as he looks, his bosom burns
With Calvary's dear thirst again.

O Mary, let thy Son no more
His ling'ring spouses thus expect;
God's children to their God restore
And to the Spirit his elect.