 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
HYMN.
FOR GOOD FRIDAY.
I
O Lamb of God! on Whom aloneEarth's penal weight of sin was thrown,
Have mercy, Saviour, on Thine own.
For thou art Man. The Virgin gave
To Thee her breast; the earth a grave.
If smiles, while Infant yet, on Thee
Were found, Thy Mother knows, not we.
A man, o'er Lazarus lulled asleep,
With them that wept Thou too didst weep.
Thy tears in dust of Salem sunk
Ere yet her heart Thy blood had drunk.
All griefs of mortals Thou hast known—
Have mercy, Saviour, on Thine own.
II
O Lamb of God, on Whom was laidThat debt all worlds had never paid,
Have mercy, Saviour; hear and aid.
For Thou art God. With God, behold,
Thou sat'st upon His throne of old:
Dread throne surpassing depth and height,
Eternal throne, and infinite!
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Ere worlds were made, or pain began.
With Abel bleeding Thou didst lie,
With Isaac forth wast led to die,
With Stephen stoned, and since, and yet,
With all Thy Martyrs' blood art wet.
III
O Lamb of God, on Whom aloneEarth's penal weight of sin was thrown,
Have mercy, Saviour, on Thine own.
Again the depths are stirred: we wait
Before the shrine's forbidding gate,
We stand in sable garments clad:
The infant at the breast is sad.
This day unconsecrated lies
The Host: unblessed the Sacrifice!
Tremble the altars disarrayed:
The mighty temples are dismayed:
Their chaunts are dead: nor lamp, nor light
Save from the Sepulchres at night.
IV
O Lamb of God, on Whom was laidThe debt all worlds had never paid,
Have mercy, Saviour; hear and aid.
Again rings out that sound abhorred:
Again, O widowed Church, the sword
Pierces thy sacred heart—the cry
Of ‘Crucify Him, Crucify.’
The Priest his garment rends again;
Once more blaspheme that perjured Twain;
Once more the upbraiding voice foretold
Peals through dark shades from gardens cold.
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Like thee who fall, might weep like thee!
V
O Lamb of God, on Whom aloneEarth's penal weight of sin was thrown,
Have mercy, Saviour, on Thine own.
By each step along that road:
By that Cross, Thine awful load:
By the Hebrew women's wail:
By the sponge, and lance, and nail:
By Mary's martyrdom, when she
In Thee died, yet offered Thee:
By that mocking crowd accursed:
By Thy dreadful, unquenched thirst:
By Thy three hours' agony:
And by that last unanswered cry—
VI
O Lamb of God, on Whom was laidThe debt all worlds had never paid,
Have mercy, Saviour, hear and aid.
Like shapes at God's last trump new-risen,
My sins time-buried rise—and listen.
The veil is rent; the rocks are riven;
And demons sweep yon darkened heaven.
Three crosses bar the black on high—
That Thief beside Thee hung so nigh—
How rolls he now on Thee his eye;
Nor sees beyond Thee hills or sky!
Thus, Christ, we turn from all to Thee
‘Miserere Domine.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |