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Yė vaulted cells where martyr'd seers of old
Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep, Green terraces and arched fountains cold,
Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep, Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe, Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low:
One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be:
Th’unearthly thoughts have pass'd from earth away, And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea
Thy footsteps all in Sion's deep decay Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear Is every stone of hers; for Thou wast surely here.
There is a spot within this sacred dale
That felt Theekneeling-touch'd thy prostratebrow: One angel knows it. O might prayer avail
To win that knowledge ! sure each holy vow Less quickly from th’ unstable soul would fade, Offer'd where Christ in agony was laid.
Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood
That from His aching brow by moonlight fell,
Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood,
Till they had fram'd within a guardian spell
So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams ;
Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o’erflow, Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams
From thy dear name, where in His page of woe It shines, a pale kind star in winter's sky? Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.
TUESDAY BEFORE EASTER.
They gave him to drink wine mingled with myrrh : but he received it not. St. Mark xv. 23.
“ FILL high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour “ The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp,
“ The Cross is sharp, and He
“ He wept by Lazarus' grave-how will He bear “ This bed of anguish ? and his pale weak form
66 Is worn with
many a watch
“Of sorrow and unrest.
“ His sweat last night was as great drops of blood,
“ The very torturers paus’d
“ Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense
The parching thirst of death
The slumbrous potion bland, and wilt not drink:
With suicidal hand
But as at first thine all-pervading look
Measuring in calm presage
So to the end, though now of mortal pangs
With unaverted eye
Thou wilt feel all, that Thou may’st pity all;
Than overcloud thy soul,
Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time.
Renew'd in every pulse
Told the long hours of death, as, one by one,
Even sinners, taught by Thee,
And bid her freely welcome, unbeguild
And yet not all unsooth'd ;
As the deep calm that breath'd, “ Father, forgive,"
And, though the strife be sore,
Love masters agony; the soul that seem'd
And in her Father's arms
Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done. St. Luke xxii. 42.
O LORD my God, do Thou thy holy will
I will lie still
And break the charm,
In perfect rest.