Art and Fashion :: :: University of Virginia Library

Of the world-redeeming Cross,
Hear, ye nations of the free,
Where Atlantic billows toss,
List, ye dwellers on the sea,
For the mission of our Saviour hath pass'd;
And hath scatter'd o'er the plain
Its false temples, rent in twain,
With their idol gods profane,
Like the blast!

In no chariot of cloud,
With its whirlwind-wheels of flame,
Whilst the conscious mountains bow'd,
He, the great Messiah, came!
But the meekest star of heaven shed its glow,
And the leafless boughs did wave
O'er the Mightiest to save,—
O'er the Conqueror of the grave,—
Sleeping low!

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He spoke—and demons fled
From the vengeance of His word;
And the wild graves of the dead
Shrank and trembled as they heard,
For the mystery of God was on His breath:
Although priest and scribe denied,
In the madness of their pride,
What the gates of hell knew wide,—
And deep Death.

My Saviour is my song,
Who the mount of faith hath rear'd;
Who hath stricken down the strong,
And the lost and lowly cheer'd;
Descending like a dove upon their souls!
When the orphan's wail was sore;
And the wreck'd and wind-beat shore
Heard the cry of those no more,
Christ consoles.

And they to whom the morn
Brought no beauty—lent no light—
At His touch their world was born:
For their Jesus gave them sight;

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And the lame through the flow'ry meads could run;
And the deaf, who never heard
A fond mother's grateful word;
And the dumb—sang like the bird
To the sun!

Yet He, the Son of God—
That immortal blessings shed,
Whilst the wilderness He trod—
Knew not where to lay His head,
Though the wild lynx and leopard had their lair.
But the heavens bow'd, and came
At a whisper of His Name;
And sleep mantled His worn frame,
Even there!

The Eastern monarch lay
Amid gold and purple bound,
Whilst a myriad lamps, like day,
Shed a summer softness round;
And vassals throng'd in thousands at his tone.
But the mockery that lies
In rich gems and ophir dyes,
When Jehovah opes the skies,
Will be shown!

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As was prophesied of old,
So its coming soon may be,
When the arrogant and bold
Shall grow weak o'er land and sea;
And the conquest-shout of empire be unknown;
The devouring sword no more,
Nor war's arrows, drunk with gore,
Scatter carnage, as of yore,
For a throne!

Wild shouts through Sion ran,
Mid the zealot's scoff and gibe,
When the “cursed” of God and man,
Sold his Saviour for a bribe!
Where the fatal tree frown'd dark 'neath the sky,
As, all bruised and bound, they led
Their Redeemer, blood to shed—
The heavens veil'd their head
Upon high!

And the mighty mountains fell
With an earthquake-voice of woe;
And the buried rose to tell
All the horror guilt must know;

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But, lightning-writ, it spoke where'er they trod:
“Let the shuddering seas proclaim,
And the hills, struck dark with shame,
In their far depths own the name
Of their God!”