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THE ATONEMENT.
Hopeless, alas, of sinful man the lot,
(And who can say of sin, he knows it not?)
If that the thoughts that herald forth the Will
In all their myriad hues may never die!
'T is even so,—with all their good and ill;
For what but they the Ever-conscious I?
(And who can say of sin, he knows it not?)
If that the thoughts that herald forth the Will
In all their myriad hues may never die!
'T is even so,—with all their good and ill;
For what but they the Ever-conscious I?
Then what compunctious, agonizing grief?
Alas! it gives not to the Soul relief,
That in herself no past can know; that never
From the “eternal Now” one thought can sever.
Ah, no!—no partial suicide may drink
Her least of life whose tenure is to think.
What though, as dead, through threescore years and ten
Some evil thought should sleep? there's no amen.
Fresh as new-born that unremembered thought
Again must wake,—nay, even on the brink
Of some far-distant grave, and there its link
Join to the living chain of self, self-wrought,
Which binds the Soul,—her fetter and her life:
Her life the consciousness of fruitless strife.
Alas! it gives not to the Soul relief,
That in herself no past can know; that never
From the “eternal Now” one thought can sever.
Ah, no!—no partial suicide may drink
Her least of life whose tenure is to think.
What though, as dead, through threescore years and ten
Some evil thought should sleep? there's no amen.
Fresh as new-born that unremembered thought
Again must wake,—nay, even on the brink
Of some far-distant grave, and there its link
Join to the living chain of self, self-wrought,
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Her life the consciousness of fruitless strife.
Ay, such, O Man, thy wretched lot had been
Had He forbade not,—He who knew no sin;
Who to his own, the creatures he had made,
Veiling his empyrean glory, came,
E'en in their form; who, not alone in name,
But palpable in flesh, as man, obeyed
The human law; a veritable man;
A second Adam, who again began
The human will, that, to our nature joined,
The obedience of that will should fulness find
In His, the Infinite, uncraving Mind.
O blessed truth! in my soul's need I feel
In thee alone my ever-during weal.
Yet who may hope to reach, or, reached, abide,
Unquenched of life, this awful mystery;—
The sweat of blood, the nameless agony,
That wrought the final doom of Sin and Death,
When tumbled from his throne the Prince of Earth;—
That gave again to Man a sinless birth,
That breathed into his clay a sinless breath?
Had He forbade not,—He who knew no sin;
Who to his own, the creatures he had made,
Veiling his empyrean glory, came,
E'en in their form; who, not alone in name,
But palpable in flesh, as man, obeyed
The human law; a veritable man;
A second Adam, who again began
The human will, that, to our nature joined,
The obedience of that will should fulness find
In His, the Infinite, uncraving Mind.
O blessed truth! in my soul's need I feel
In thee alone my ever-during weal.
Yet who may hope to reach, or, reached, abide,
Unquenched of life, this awful mystery;—
The sweat of blood, the nameless agony,
That wrought the final doom of Sin and Death,
When tumbled from his throne the Prince of Earth;—
That gave again to Man a sinless birth,
That breathed into his clay a sinless breath?
No, not to me, of mortal mould, is given
To scan the mystery which no eye in heaven,
Attempered to all deepest things, may read.
Yet who shall make me doubt the truth I need?
Then down, my Soul! from the four farthest towers
Of the four warring winds, call in thy powers,
Vagrant o'er earth, with all their reasoning pride,
And here beneath the Cross their madness hide;
Down to its kindred dust here cast thy store
Of learned ignorance, to rise no more:
For what may all avail thee, if to thee,
When all of sense like passing air shall flee,—
If to thy dull, sealed ear, come not the cry,
“Where now, O Death, thy sting, O Grave, thy victory?”
To scan the mystery which no eye in heaven,
Attempered to all deepest things, may read.
Yet who shall make me doubt the truth I need?
Then down, my Soul! from the four farthest towers
Of the four warring winds, call in thy powers,
Vagrant o'er earth, with all their reasoning pride,
And here beneath the Cross their madness hide;
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Of learned ignorance, to rise no more:
For what may all avail thee, if to thee,
When all of sense like passing air shall flee,—
If to thy dull, sealed ear, come not the cry,
“Where now, O Death, thy sting, O Grave, thy victory?”
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