 | The Last Crusade |  |
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GOOD FRIDAY, 1915, 1916.
Our Lord again is crucified in France,
In Belgium's holy places,
And on the downcast Cross His murderers dance;
Cathedral's calm, each solemn circumstance,
Have lost their reverend graces.
Cattle are stabled in the sacred court,
And of sweet cloisters savages make sport.
In Belgium's holy places,
And on the downcast Cross His murderers dance;
Cathedral's calm, each solemn circumstance,
Have lost their reverend graces.
Cattle are stabled in the sacred court,
And of sweet cloisters savages make sport.
Our Lord to-day is crucified, and spurned
This time by Christians only,
His shrines are blasted and His altars burned;
Christ to the Eternal Passion hath returned,
A Prisoner lost and lonely.
Dethroned, discrowned, He stretches forth blind hands
Pierced by His servants, in those bleeding lands.
This time by Christians only,
His shrines are blasted and His altars burned;
Christ to the Eternal Passion hath returned,
A Prisoner lost and lonely.
Dethroned, discrowned, He stretches forth blind hands
Pierced by His servants, in those bleeding lands.
Our Lord disowned is crucified once more,
Victim and Priest for ever,
He offers up Himself yet as before;
Men curse the Presence that they did adore,
And bonds they now dissever.
He weareth still the crown of thorns, His brow
Pours forth the bloody sweat more fully now
Victim and Priest for ever,
He offers up Himself yet as before;
Men curse the Presence that they did adore,
And bonds they now dissever.
He weareth still the crown of thorns, His brow
Pours forth the bloody sweat more fully now
Our Lord is daily crucified, His cry
Comes from ten thousand crosses,
Though nothing to His butchers who pass by;
Myriads are mingled in His agony,
Though Love rules but by losses.
They know not what they do, and never a spot
Is found where Christ and Calvary are not.
Comes from ten thousand crosses,
Though nothing to His butchers who pass by;
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Though Love rules but by losses.
They know not what they do, and never a spot
Is found where Christ and Calvary are not.
Red with the blood of virgins and of saints
He feels the knotted scourges,
And staggering to His Throne He falls, He faints;
The smoke of hell goes up to heaven, and taints
Lone lands with fiery surges.
It is His back that bears the judgement rod,
The surf of sadness breaketh against God.
He feels the knotted scourges,
And staggering to His Throne He falls, He faints;
The smoke of hell goes up to heaven, and taints
Lone lands with fiery surges.
It is His back that bears the judgement rod,
The surf of sadness breaketh against God.
He feeleth most not cruel thorn or nail,
But in their hour of trial,
That His own children should so darkly fail;
While wrong and every evil now prevail,
And His dear friend's denial;
That Luther's sons should be the first to hound
Luther's great Master to the slaughter ground.
But in their hour of trial,
That His own children should so darkly fail;
While wrong and every evil now prevail,
And His dear friend's denial;
That Luther's sons should be the first to hound
Luther's great Master to the slaughter ground.
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