This was the earth's consummate hour; For this had blazed the prophet's power; For this had swept the conqueror's sword, Had ravaged, raised, cast down, restored; Persepolis, Rome, Babylon,
For this ye sank, for this ye shone.
Yet things to which earth's brightest beam
Were darkness, earth itself a dream;
Foreheads on which shall crowns be laid,
Sublime, when sun and star shall fade;
Worlds upon worlds, eternal things,
Hung on thy anguish, King of kings!
Still from his lip no curse has come,
His lofty eye has looked no doom;
No earthquake burst, no angel brand
Crushes the black, blaspheming band:
What say those lips by anguish riven?
"God, be my murderers forgiven !"
He dies in whose high victory,
The slayer, death himself, shall die.
He dies by whose all-conquering tread
Shall yet be crushed the serpent's head;
From his proud throne to darkness hurled,
The god and tempter of this world.
He dies, creation's awful Lord,
Jehovah, Christ, Eternal Word!
To come in thunder from the skies;
To bid the buried world arise;
The earth his footstool, heaven his throne;
Redeemer! may thy will be done.
THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD PASSETH AWAY.
A ROSE upon her mossy stem,
Fair queen of Flora's gay domain,
All graceful wore her diadem,
The brightest 'mid the brilliant train ;
But evening came, with frosty breath,
And ere the quick return of day,
Her beauties in the blight of death
I saw when morning gemmed the sky,
A fair young creature gladly rove,
Her moving lip was melody,
Her varying smile the charm of love:
At eve I came, but on her bed
She drooped, with forehead pale as clay;
"What dost thou here?"-she faintly said,
"Passing away."
I looked on manhood's towering form,
Like some tall oak when tempests blow,
That scorns the fury of the storm
And strongly strikes its root below;
Again I looked-with idiot cower
His vacant eye's unmeaning ray
Told how the mind of godlike power
May pass away.
Of Earth I asked, with deep surprise,
Hast thou no more enduring grace,
To lure thy trusting votaries
Along their toil-worn, shadowy race?
She answered not, the grave replied,
"Lo! to my sceptre's silent sway,
Her boasted beauty, pomp and pride,
How sweet, in the musing of faith, to repair
To the garden where Mary delighted to rove; To sit by the tomb where she breathed her fond prayer, And paid her sad tribute of sorrow and love;
To see the bright beam which disperses her fear,
As the Lord of her soul breaks the bars of his prison, And the voice of the angel salutes her glad ear, The Lord is a captive no more" He is risen !"
O Saviour! as oft as our footsteps we bend
In penitent sadness to weep at thy grave,
On the wings of thy greatness in pity descend,
Be ready to comfort and "mighty to save."
We shrink not from scenes of desertion and wo,
If there we may meet with the Lord of our love;
Contented, with Mary, to sorrow below,
If, with her, we may drink of thy fountains above.
THE chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll in fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire;
Self-moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud,
And the heavens with the burthen of Godhead are bowed.
The glory! the glory! around him are poured,
The myriads of angels that wait on the Lord;
And the glorified saints, and the martyrs are there,
And all who the palm-wreaths of victory wear.
The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard: Lo, the depths of the stone-covered monuments stirred! From ocean and earth, from the south pole and north, Lo, the vast generation of ages come forth.
The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set,
Where the Lamb and the white-vested elders are met;
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord,
And the doom of eternity hangs on his word.
O mercy! O mercy! look down from above,
Redeemer, on us, thy sad children, with love:
When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven,
May our justified souls find a welcome in heaven.
O WHY are the loud harps of seraphs resounding
Sweet music of joy through the bright realms above?
And the choir of the ransomed in transport responding
New anthems of praise to the God of their love?
And why do they stoop from the scene of their gladness,
Where round the blest throne of the Lamb they recline?
And what can they trace in this dark vale of sadness,
To heighten a rapture already divine?
Behold in yon desolate cell, where reclining
On earth, lone and cheerless, the captive is laid;
No beam through the gloom of his dungeon is shining,
No accents of friendship breathe solace or aid:
And yet, though the bands of the base have enchained him,
His soul bows submissive and meek to the rod;
From friends who deserted and foes who disdained him,
He sought for a refuge-he fled to his God.
Then mark, down his wan cheek, the silent tear stealing,
The pale lips that quiver convulsive in prayer;
The deep sigh that bursts from his bosom revealing
The sorrow that springs from true penitence there:
And marvel no more, why with angels consenting,
The saints to their Lord songs of rapture should raise;
They gaze from their thrones on a sinner repenting,
And wake to fresh transports of wonder and praise.
|