The Gospel Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Art thou the Messiah, the Prophet to come?
Or wait we another to see?”—
“My works be my answer: and blest is his doom,
Who shall not be offended in me.
The deaf have their hearing, the sightless their eyes,
The dumb have recover'd their speech;
The lepers are cleansed; the lifeless arise;
To the poor the glad voice of the Gospel I preach.”

The Gospel is preach'd, it is preach'd to the poor:
So the Lord by his Spirit foretold;
When visions of beauty in prospect before
The eyes of his seer were unroll'd:
“Then for them, who in prison and heaviness pined,
Oil of gladness, like rivers, should flow;
On their temples for ashes be diadems twined,
And the garments of praise for the spirit of woe.”

The Gospel is preach'd, it is preach'd to the poor;
In Nazareth's synagogue shewn,
When God by his Spirit first open'd the door
For the tidings proclaim'd by his Son.
There first He proclaim'd the good tidings of grace,
Inroll'd in the book of the Seer;
And declar'd, whilst each eye was fast fix'd on his face,
“This day is this Scripture fulfill'd in your ear.”

The Gospel He preach'd to the poor of the earth,
Who this world's delights never knew;
Hard penury frown'd on the day of their birth,
And a gloom o'er their pilgrimage threw:
In the lap of unlearned obscurity born,
At the bosom of indigence nurst;
The high-minded Pharisee held them in scorn,
The Rabbi of Israel call'd them accurst.

But weak as they were and ignoble, He taught
That their Father's affection they share;
And represt the inordinate workings of thought,
While He told of “the fowls of the air:”
He spake of the wretched, who patiently “mourn,”
And with “comfort” hereafter are “blest;”
And of children of woe, who “by angels are borne”
From the hovel of want to the mansions of rest.

The Gospel He preach'd to the poor, who were weigh'd
Hard down by the burden of grief;
“In spirit the poor,” on whose consciences prey'd
A sickness, which baffled relief:
Not such as stand far from their fellows apart,
The Pharisee's merits advance,
Thank God for their goodness in pride of their heart,
And on self-humbled sinners look scornful askance:

But those, who their breasts with sincerity beat,
Alive to the evil within,
With the penitent publican pardon entreat,
“Have mercy, O God, on my sin:”
“To me,” thus the Saviour invited them, “turn,
Ye travailers, heavily prest;
My lesson of meekness and lowliness learn,
Submit to my yoke, and your souls shall have rest.”

Thus “went He about doing good” day by day,
Bidding mourning and heaviness cease;
And still, as He went, to the poor by the way
He preach'd the glad tidings of peace:
Nor more worthy the Godhead his marvels appear,
Which bade the vex'd body be whole,
Than to “publish Jehovah's acceptable year,”
And “bind up the wounds of the broken in soul.”

The scene of his marvellous works is gone by,
The senses perceive them no more;
But the voice of the Saviour still utters its cry,
And the Gospel speaks home to the poor.
Of worldly distinctions and pleasures bereft,
'Mid penury, labour, and care,
They list to the words which “the Anointed” has left;
And they know in their hearts, that his blessing they share.

Nor less they in spirit who inwardly bleed,
Where conscience has buried its dart,
And points the rash word, the intemperate deed,
The deep-seated plague of the heart:
They too of the Gospel, still mighty to heal,
Still list to the encouraging voice,
O'er their soul feel the breath of the Comforter steal,
And in hope of the promis'd salvation rejoice.

Yes, the Prophet to come, the Messiah, art thou!
When with man thou didst sojourn of yore,
Thy word, which made nature submissively bow,
To the senses its evidence bore:
At once to the sight, to the hearing, it told
The presence of glory divine,
And still in thy volume portray'd we behold,
Tho' less brightly the features of Deity shine:

But the word, which the soul of her blessedness tells,
In its energy knows no decrease;
The heart of the poor at its ministry swells,
At the voice of the Gospel of peace:
To that Gospel a voice from within them replies,
Not heard by mortality's ear;
But wing'd by the Spirit its whispers arise,
And thou hear'st it acknowledge, that Christ has been here.