 | Sacra Poesis |  |
THE CROSS.
Thickly the clustering darkness gather'd round,The sun withheld his light;
The rocks were rent—with terror quak'd the ground,
Earth trembled at the sight!
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On that dark bitter morn,
At Calvary, the great Messiah died,
Pale, writhing, mock'd, and torn!
Forth started from their sepulchres the dead,
With shouts of joy—yet grieving;
Joyous that he the Sacrifice had bled,
Their woes and fears relieving;
But sorrowing to see the gloomy day
When the blest Saviour died,
And that Jerusalem had spurn'd away
Her King, the Crucified!
O, who can tell the madness of that hour
In dread Gethsemane?
Tortur'd by Hell's all-concentrated pow'r,
He gasp'd in agony!
Who can conceive the patience that could yield
To insult, shame, and blows—
And yet, all-merciful, forbore to wield
His thunders 'gainst his foes!
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