Thou wert alone in that fierce multitude,

When " Crucify him!" yelled the general shout; No hand to guard thee mid those insults rude, Nor lip to bless in all that frantic rout;

Whose lightest whispered word

The Seraphim had heard,

And adamantine arms from all the heavens broke out.

They bound thy temples with the twisted thorn,
Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain;
The blood, from all thy flesh with scourges torn,
Deepened thy robe of mockery's crimson grain ;
Whose native vesture bright

Was the unapproached light,

The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane.

They smote thy cheek with many a ruthless palm,
With the cold spear thy shuddering side they pierced;
The draught of bitterest gall was all the balm
They gave, t'enhance thy unslaked, burning thirst:
Thou, at whose words of peace

Did pain and anguish cease,

And the long buried dead their bonds of slumber burst.

Low bowed thy head convulsed, and, drooped in death,
Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry;
Slow struggled from thy breast the parting breath,
And every limb was wrung with agony.

That head, whose veilless blaze

Filled angels with amaze,

When at that voice sprang forth the rolling suns on high,

And thou wert laid within the narrow tomb,

Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding grave-clothes

[bound.

The sealed stone confirmed thy mortal doom,
Lone watchmen walked thy desert burial ground,
Whom heaven could not contain,

Ngr th' immeasurable plain

Of vast Infinity inclose or circle round.

For us, for us, thou didst endure the pain,

And thy meek spirit bowed itself to shame,
To wash our souls from sin's infecting stain,
T'avert the Father's wrathful vengeance flame:
Thou, that could'st nothing win

By saving worlds from sin,

Nor aught of glory add to thy all-glorious name.

Oh, thou that wilt not break the bruised reed,
Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow,
Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed,
The only balm of our afflictions thou,

Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, oh God!
To kiss with quivering lips-still humbly kiss thy rod!

We bless thee, Lord, though far from Judah's land; Though our worn limbs are black with stripes and [chains;

Though for stern foes we till the burning sand;
And reap, for others' joy, the summer plains;

We bless thee, Lord, for thou art gracious still,
Even though this last black drop o'erflow our cup of ill!

We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child;
The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep;
The weary hours her graceful sports have guiled,
And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep!
She was the dove of hope to our lorn ark;

The only star that made the stranger's sky less dark!

Our dove is fallen into the spoiler's net;

Rude hands defile her plumes, so chastely white; To the bereaved their one soft star is set,

And all above is sullen, cheerless night!

But still we thank thee for our transient bliss:
Yet, Lord, to scourge our sins remained no way but this?

As when our Father to mount Moriah led

The blessing's heir, his age's hope and joy, Pleased, as he roamed along with dancing tread, Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy, And laughed in sport to see the yellow fire Climb up the turf-built shrine, his destined funeral pyre.

Even thus our joyous child went lightly on;
Bashfully sportive, timorously gay,

Her white foot bounded from the pavement stone
Like some light bird from off the quivering spray ;
And back she glanced, and smiled, in blameless glee;
The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance to see.

By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent
That bade the Sire his murtherous task forego :
When to his home the child of Abraham went
His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow.
Alas! and lurks there, in the thicket's shade,
The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid ?

Lord, even through thee to hope were now too bold; Yet 'twere to doubt thy mercy to despair. 'Tis anguish, yet 'tis comfort, faint and cold,

To think how sad we are, how blest we were ! To speak of her is wretchedness, and yet

It were a grief more deep and bitterer to forget!

Oh Lord our God! why was she e'er our own?
Why is she not our own-our treasure still?
We could have passed our heavy years alone.
Alas! is this to bow us to thy will?

Ah, even our humblest prayers we make repine,
Nor, prostrate thus on earth, our hearts to thee resign.

Forgive, forgive-even should our full hearts break, The broken heart thou will not, Lord, despise : Ah! thou art still too gracious to forsake,

Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise. Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord; And, though our lips rebel, still make thyself adored.