Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dear sinner, that poor red right hand which struck the fatal blow,
Was lifted against My command and Me it first laid low.
Betwixt thee and thy dreadful aim, because I loved thee best
And had the one eternal claim, I threw My bleeding Breast.
The knife beat back My mighty Love, wherein Thou hadst no part
Less than all wealth of Heaven above, and pierced this broken Heart.
Thy hatred vented most on Me its bitterness and wrath,
And flouted Mercy that set free as air the upward path.
I felt the fatal wound, that deep of guilty murder drank,
Opening the silent lands of sleep, and with thy victim sank.
The horror lay not upon him alone, which to Me cried;
I knew its presence cold and dim, and also truly died.
No homicidal thought could fail to stab, no stubborn pride;

365

Each angry feeling was a nail, which tore My tender side.
And every pulse of passion, made of wedded mocks and scorns,
Wove for My Head in awful shade another crown of thorns.
The cutting words were as the spear which racked My human Flesh,
And wrung from it the crimson tear and crucified afresh.
The very looks so base and black were harder than the rod,
They rained as tempest on My back and scourged the helpless God.
The strokes, the insults and the ire heaped on that slaughtered frame,
Yet kindled Me a burning fire of solitude and shame.
For I shall suffer in the law which justly takes thy breath,
And hang with thee and grimly draw new terrors out of death.