Dear modest, majestic
mother of Constantine,
You sweetly speak
with stately serenity;
As a holy pilgrim, with
eyes alive and animated,
You search for Christ’s
true cross on Calvary.
Lumbering laborers dig up for
you a dizzying number
Of dirty crosses -- yet
only one is miraculous;
Only one cures the
worn-out woman’s incurable
Disease when she is
wondrously made well.
Then, when you eagerly
embrace its holy wood
In your amiable arms, you
tremble with jubilation;
Strands of your long flowing
hair blow in the breeze across
Your lovely face and then
softly caress the holy cross.