 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Garden
Nigh to the place where He was crucified
A sheltered garden lay,
Where roses hung their heads, with crimson dyed,
And blushed their lives away,
And lilies of the valley, blanched with fear,
Shook from their silver bells the trembling tear.
A sheltered garden lay,
Where roses hung their heads, with crimson dyed,
And blushed their lives away,
And lilies of the valley, blanched with fear,
Shook from their silver bells the trembling tear.
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And there on terraced rock the vine was seen
Wandering with quaint festoon,
Or trained with care into an arbour green
To cool the rays of noon:
Not yet its clusters woo'd the ripening sun,
Though the sharp pruning knife its work had done.
Wandering with quaint festoon,
Or trained with care into an arbour green
To cool the rays of noon:
Not yet its clusters woo'd the ripening sun,
Though the sharp pruning knife its work had done.
And many a fragrant plant and freckled flower
Bordered the paths below,
And proffered to the gardener's hand the dower
Of scent or vernal glow;
While in the shady corners mint and rue
And bitter herbs for humbler uses grew.
Bordered the paths below,
And proffered to the gardener's hand the dower
Of scent or vernal glow;
While in the shady corners mint and rue
And bitter herbs for humbler uses grew.
Here, where he sat or walked, the rich man made
A flower-encircled tomb;
And here by loving hands the Lord was laid
To rest in the green gloom;
And here He woke and threw a charm around
The dewy stillness of that garden-ground.
A flower-encircled tomb;
And here by loving hands the Lord was laid
To rest in the green gloom;
And here He woke and threw a charm around
The dewy stillness of that garden-ground.
I have a garden, Lord, to share with Thee—
Nay, let it all be Thine;
And very near to it is seen the Tree
Of Sacrifice Divine,
In whose fair shadow Thou canst show Thy face,
And turn to holy ground the lowliest place.
Nay, let it all be Thine;
And very near to it is seen the Tree
Of Sacrifice Divine,
In whose fair shadow Thou canst show Thy face,
And turn to holy ground the lowliest place.
Let my Belovèd to His garden come
And eat His pleasant fruits,
The ripest clusters with the richest bloom
From off the goodliest shoots;
If any such can grow in this poor soil,
On which my Lord has spent such tears and toil.
And eat His pleasant fruits,
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From off the goodliest shoots;
If any such can grow in this poor soil,
On which my Lord has spent such tears and toil.
But if the fruits of holiness are scant,
And few its blossoms sweet,
Yet would I find some herb or creeping plant
To lay at Thy pierced feet—
The hyssop small or penitential rue,
Wet with the tear-drops of the early dew.
And few its blossoms sweet,
Yet would I find some herb or creeping plant
To lay at Thy pierced feet—
The hyssop small or penitential rue,
Wet with the tear-drops of the early dew.
Only, O Lord, as in that garden-ground
Beside the Cross of shame,
May Thy dear presence in my heart be found
And its glad homage claim;
Nor ever break the seal which Love would place
Upon the secret home of dying Grace!
Beside the Cross of shame,
May Thy dear presence in my heart be found
And its glad homage claim;
Nor ever break the seal which Love would place
Upon the secret home of dying Grace!
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