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

There is no measure like the Cross,
There is no measure so,
Which is as infinite in loss
And as exceeding low;
It probes into the poisonous leaven
Of evil's awful spell,
It is as high as highest Heaven,
It is as deep as hell.
Ah, if I were Almighty God
Who suffered sore for us,
And He the crawling worm I trod,
I would not measure thus.

There is no measure like the rule
Which meted God our dearth,
And carries all the joys of Yule
Like sunshine round the earth;
Bought for us at tremendous price
And daily, hourly pangs,
In that perpetual Sacrifice
Where God the Victim hangs;
For O not once or twice alone
In agony He died,
He ever reigns upon that Throne
For us the Crucified.

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There is no measure like that tree
Of dreadful living death,
Upraised for sinners whereon He
For us draws dying breath;
And every soul that passes by
His mercy signs His doom,
And every spot is Calvary
Where Jesus finds no room.
But if I were Almighty God,
And He the midge below
A moment playing o'er the sod,
I would not measure so.

There is no measure like the span
Of God's most boundless Love,
Which took the squalid home in man
And gave him all above;
That chose the littleness and debt
And dolorous bounds of sin,
And purged that prison floor and set
Eternity within;
And though a thousand times cast out
A thousand times He yearns
For us, despite the hate and doubt,
And to His shame returns.

There is no measure like that prayer
For these dim rebel lands,
Which still for ill and God's own slayer
Uplifts the nailèd hands;
It bears all cruelty and scorn
To wipe away one tear,
It wears for crime the crownèd thorn
And leans upon the spear.
But if I were Almighty God
And He my bitterest foe,
Condemned but to the judgment rod,
I would not measure so.

There is no measure like that Heart
Of the Most Holy One,

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Which bled so for the wicked part
Which only we had done;
Which bleeds for ever, as we drive
The wounds of torture deep,
With direr woes He came to shrive,
And sorrow He must keep;
That things of darkness and the dust,
As bubbles on the tide,
May find a refuge they can trust
Safe in His riven side.

There is no measure like the Cross
Which reaches through all time,
To purge the golden ore from dross,
And gathers of each clime;
There is no measure like the Love
Of the Thrice-Blessèd Lord,
Who plants us on His seat above
While smitten by our sword.
Ah, if I were Almighty God
And He with murderer's blow
Struck at me from earth's puny clod,
I would not measure so.

THE CROSS.

The Measure of Sin.

When the name that is known not in Heaven was heard
And the eyes of the angels grew dim,
While the River of Life in its fountain was stirred
Till the waters washed over their brim;
When the word that is nameless,
The word that is woe
For a season of night entered in;
When the thing that is shameless
And every one's foe
Threw a shadow on all and was Sin;
Then the breast of the Father was torn with a throe,
As He felt the downfallen akin.

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Ah, the evil and erring was yet His own child
And begotten in beauty and joy,
Upon whom at His birth He had tenderly smil'd
And endowed with the earth as a toy;
But the root that is bitter,
The root that is bane
Now laid hold of humanity's heart,
And the glamour and glitter
Were turned into pain
And the pleasure no less had a smart;
But in all of the curse, with its sorrow and chain,
God Himself had a terrible part.

It was not that His playmate, His darling, His pride
And the crown of the blossoming years,
Now was blighted and wandered away from His side
And sought fellowship rather with tears;
But the wrong that is cruel,
The wrong that is grief
Had come home to the Father who gave,
And the bliss in His jewel
Was troubled and brief,
And between them lay death and the grave;
Though He knew what alone could redeem with relief,
And the hope that was mighty to save.

Ah, the will of his creature so righteously plann'd,
And enriched with the exquisite flower
Of all possible tributes of sea and the land,
Was now set against Him and His dower;
And the cup that is broken,
The cup that is spilt
Had been chosen by man for his aid,
And the deed with its token
Of darkness and guilt
Fell in blight on foundations He laid;
And the temple to rise must in blood be rebuilt,
When the sentence of mercy was said.

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For the sin in its infinite compass cried out
For a Sacrifice that was no less,
When from earth in its bonds came the conquering shout
Of the wrong still defying redress;
And the light that is error,
The light that is dark,
Had dethroned the bright truth of the day,
And the shadow of terror
Had curtained the Ark,
And the leaders were farthest astray;
But they looked not above for the beaconing mark,
And they looked not below at the way.

So the counsels that are of Eternity bade
That the Highest must meekliest lie,
And the Blessèd who lived in the children He made
Must alone for their trespasses die;
And the One who is Holy,
The One who is kin
To all beauty must bear all the loss,
And be reckoned most lowly
And Himself become Sin,
That His children be purged from their dross;
But, behold, when He knocked they would scarce let Him in,
And then gave Him as Kingdom the Cross.