Catholic
A strain upon a lyre harp sweeps a sound so low That only those who gather round Can catch its sweetness flow A strain which takes all suffering A woman's heart seems torn A tune of seeming martyrdom For her son she mourns A strain of sadness at the tomb She searches for her dead An angel pointing to the skies Which dawns a crimson red A strain upon twelve tender hearts Who sit in upper rooms And still the strain plays out its tune From sadness of the tomb A strain upon a sepulchre A white robed body lay The saviour rises, then appears The rock is rolled away A strain it sweeps his Mother's heart With gladness, faith and joy And plays its tune eternally For all who will enjoy The strain is never ending Through time and space it plays Every ernest deed and word It plays throughout our days.