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VENI, VENI, EMMANUEL!
“Then went out the inhabitants of the town of Mansoul with haste to the green trees and to the meadows, to gather boughs and flowers, therewith to strew the streets against their Prince, the son of Shaddai, should come; they also made garlands and other fine works, to betoken how joyful they were, and should be, to receive their Emmanuel into Mansoul; they also prepared for his coming what music the town might afford, that they might play before him to the palace, his habitation.” Bunyan's Holy War.
From Bozrah's rock-girt fortress hold?
A conqueror, travelling in His might,
A kingly champion, long foretold.
Thou comest from the hills of pride;
And with Thee of Thy people, none
The triumph share, the spoil divide.
No Saviour for our race beheld;
Thy vengeance then its pathway made,
And Thine own fury Thee upheld.
Thy feet are on the necks of Kings;
Thy glittering spear, Thine iron rod,
Shall guide Thy hand to fearful things.
Thy feet have track'd the crimson stair
That leadeth from the hills of dread,
From fierce red-handed Esau's lair.
In fire behind Thee sinks the sun,
Yet is Thy vesture dipped in dyes
From ruddy sky and soil
Who is He that cometh from Bozrah? This ancient city of Edom, upon which, in connection with Edom and Teman, destruction has been pronounced by God (see Jeremiah xlix. 7 to 22; and the whole prophecy of Obadiah,) whose inhabitants dwelt “in the clefts of the rocks,” and the “heights of the hills, and made their house” like the nests of the eagles, has been identified with the modern village of Busareh, among the mountains north of Petra. All travellers in this region have been struck with the peculiarly vivid red of its rocks and soil (see Stanley's glowing description), which seems to give an added meaning to the expression in the text; “the dyed garments from Edom” enhance the idea of vengeance having been executed in a land already tinged with the hues of doom.
And purpled with a costly stain;
As one that treadeth out the vine
Thy feet have trampled on the slain.
Thy feet on princes and on powers
Have trampled! let not one escape,
But crush to earth Thy foes and ours.
And smite and scatter them to dust;
To Thy swift chariot firmly bind
The cruel Lords of hate and lust.
And let the promptings of Thy hand
Be terror, wrath, and anguish still,
Till not a foe Thy might withstand.
Thy sharp and biting sword shall feel;
And on the serpent's head shall be
The vengeance of Thy bruised heel.
Shall fly with sure incessant aim;
Till all Thine arrows reach the hearts
Of them that wrought Thy people shame.
And with Thee bring Thy captive train;
Come Saviour of the world and heart,
Come, mighty Victor over pain!
Upon the green and springing vine;
And feed on the young olive boughs,—
Thou wilt not hurt the oil and wine.
Its broken tale of wrong and tears;
Come, Lord of Salem, Prince of Peace,
And bring again our vanish'd years!
None other may its clasps unseal;
No eyes but mine and Thine may look
On what its crowded lines reveal.
Each line another line I see,
The tale of all that might have been;
And Thou wilt read it o'er with me;
Life's labyrinth now no longer vain;
The love that frees the universe
Hath made its broken story plain.
A little flower that faded soon,
A flower unwooed and uncaress'd
By summer in its golden noon.
In mossy wood-walks, dank and wild,—
The first of all the flowers I knew,
The treasure of a lonely child.
A love exact, a pity sure,
Minute and tender, taking heed
Of all that human hearts endure.
Thy vast design, our feeble plan,
And brings again each faded hope,
In giving back his God to Man.
Our Prince, our Guide, our Love, our Lord?
And is thy name Emmanuel,
God present with His world restored?
Wild moor, the city's crowded pen;
Each waste, each peopled solitude,
Becomes a home for happy men.
None now shall bid it err or mourn;
And o'er its desert breaks the rose
In triumph o'er the grieving thorn.
Is light, is space, is breadth and room
For each thing fair, beloved, and free,
To have its hour of life and bloom.
Each lowly wish, each daring claim;
All, all that life hath long repress'd,
Unfolds, undreading blight or blame.
Thy years are sure, and glad, and slow;
Within Thy mighty world of peace
The humblest flower hath leave to blow,
And drink within its soul the dew;
The child's sweet laugh like light may run
Through life's long day, and still be true;
The firm warm clasp of constant friend;
And nought shall fail, and nought shall miss
Its blissful aim, its blissful end.
Is glad for Thee! and all is well,
And fixed, and sure, because Thou art,
Whose name is call'd Emmanuel.
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