 | The Choir and The Oratory |  |
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FOUR SONNETS.
I. Psalm viii
“But we see Jesus, who was made a little lower than the angels, for the
suffering of death, crowned with glory and honour.”—Heb. ii. 9.
How excellent through all the earth Thy name,
O Lord! Above the heavens Thy glories rise:
Yet, to confound and shame Thine enemies,
Thou makest infant tongues Thy praise proclaim.
When I survey the heavens, this goodly frame,
With moon and stars gemming the evening skies,
Lord! what is man, that thou shouldst heed his cries,
Or stoop to this low world of sin and shame?
Than angels only lower made, o'er all
That roam the earth, or creep, or on fleet pinion
Soar, or that cleave the seas, he had dominion;
Lord of this beauteous world, till sin had birth.
The Second Adam shall repair that fall.
How excellent, O Lord, Thy name through all the earth!
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II.
“And laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the
inn.”—Luke ii. 7.
No room for Judah's Daughter, David's Heir,
In their own city? There was greater dearth
Of loyal faith than room. That wondrous birth
Which the glad choirs of heaven in songs declare,
Mortals regard not. Room was none to spare,
Or in the crowded khan or halls of mirth,
For Him, the Prince of all the kings of earth!
The Holy Family a stable share!
There was no room upon Judea's throne:
The Idumean, Cæsar's vassal, reigned.
The long-expected came unto His own,
And to receive their King His own disdained.
Ah! such is still man's blind, ungrateful part;
There is no room for Christ within the heart.
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III.
“Birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay
his head.”—Luke ix. 58.
The last bright glance of sunset sheds below
Its glory, and the roseate beams that spring
From the recess of light, in splendour bring
The sun's farewell;—such messengers as throw
Open the gates of morn. All creatures know
The hour when woods their twilight shadows fling.
No more the swallow tracks her airy ring
Of light. The rook's dark phalanx homeward go.
The bee her cell hath found, or closed her wing
On scabious wild. Yea, every breathing thing,
Cradled in down, or silken web, or bed
Of woven leaf, or sheltered covert, lies:
All, save the Lord of air, and earth, and skies:
He only had not where to lay his head.
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IV.
“She has wrought a good work on me....she is come aforehand to anoint
my body to the burying.”—Mark xiv. 6—8.
The costly nard of Indian wilds she brought,
And from the' unsealēd alabaster shed
Its perfume on that more than regal head,
Uncrowned save with its glory. Love thus sought,
In homage with prophetic import fraught,
Duly to tend that Guest so mild, so dread.
Its mystic meaning by her Lord was read:
“She did it for my burial, and hath wrought
A good work on me.” Other duteous hands
In vain the sweet, embalming spices bore.
His form saw no corruption, owned no bands
In the sepulchral rock. The conflict sore
By Death's defeat fulfilled, the Victor stands,
With many crowns, a King for evermore.
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