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One truth divine, from deeps of scripture drawn,
And by one heart with burning zeal espoused,
Then, bodied forth in majesty of life,
What miracles that single truth achieves
Which rock an empire, or a world restore!
And hence, when pale in his monastic gloom,
Alone, and pensive, groping after God
Through clouds of error, black with Romish guile,
At length the tortured monk, with tears of praise,
Consummate pardon in the Cross alone
Discover'd, then, a peerless Truth was found
From whence instructed Empires learn to live.
And in that hall, where stood the fearless man
Bulwark'd with principle, beyond all powers
By earth created, or by hell contrived,
He grasp'd a truth which Heaven's eternal creed
Hath canonised, and by the Cross explain'd,—
That Grace is God by God alone applied:
On this, Religion all her fabric rears,
That else, is baseless, as the yielding air.

Hence flow those energies through man and mind,
Which mould our being great, or make it good.
Here, by the pardon of perfective grace,
The anguish'd memory can alone subdue
That dread Gehenna, which our guilt inflames
Oft in remembrance; and, from thence derived,
Pure emanations spring, and feelings act
Which feed with moral life the social frame
Of men, and nations; for the heart is free,
And guarded Conscience on the bosom's throne
Reigns in the sanctity which Christ inspires.

'Tis thus, where dreadless martyrs often fail'd,
And ancient heroes their protesting voice
Lifted in vain, to vindicate The Truth
From all aggression, Luther's prowess smote
The Roman Beast to ruin, nigh to death,—
And that, with principle! 'Twas here he fought,
He grappled with the foe of God, and man.
Swift through the night of man's imprison'd soul
He pour'd the beam of evangelic day;
And where Authority, in mitred sway,
Fetter'd weak conscience with infernal chains,
He throned The Gospel, in the light of Grace
At once the law, and liberty of souls.
But, had he only on a mob of “saints”
Shot his keen arrows of sarcastic truth,
Or, laid the monk's Augéan darkness bare,
In form regen'rate, but with life corrupt,
The Reformation then had toil'd, and died.
But, glory be to Him whose Name we bear!
'Twas grace in principle which Luther taught:
Here is the lever which the world uplifts,—
“A Saviour just, for man unjust hath died!”
Here is a Truth, whose trumpet-voice might preach
The Pope's religion into airy nought;
A truth, which is at once the text of texts,
Making all scripture music to our souls.
The Bible read, is God Himself perused
In pages letter'd with almighty love,
When thus proclaiming what the conscience craves:
While the rich fountain of Emmanuel's Blood
Not barricaded round with priestly walls,
Nor blent with superstition's blackening tide
Of “merits,” now its healing flood of grace
Full on the heart in one vast current pours!

He ended, thus, where ancient Minds began;
'Gainst outward vice those murder'd Saints appeal'd,
And perish'd: but for Principle Divine,
Bravely alone the monk of Erfurt fought.
He struck the root,—and then, the branches fell;
He purged the fountain,—then, the stream roll'd pure;
The deep foundation down to hell he shook,
And then—the Roman superstition reel'd:
From centre to circumf'rence, did the soul
Of Luther reason out its lonely way;
Till, lo! at length, by Gospel-light reveal'd,
He saw impostures, in successive types
Each after each more canker'd, and corrupt;
And in the Pope that Antichrist discern'd
Whom Daniel vision'd, and St. John unveils.