 | Greenland (1819) |  |
182
CHRIST'S PASSION.
The morning dawns upon the place,
Where Jesus spent the night in prayer;
Through brightening glooms behold his face,
No form nor comeliness is there.
Last eve, by those He call'd his own,
Betray'd, forsaken, or denied,
He met his enemies alone,
In all their malice, rage, and pride.
Where Jesus spent the night in prayer;
Through brightening glooms behold his face,
No form nor comeliness is there.
Last eve, by those He call'd his own,
Betray'd, forsaken, or denied,
He met his enemies alone,
In all their malice, rage, and pride.
Brought forth to judgement now he stands,
Arraign'd, condemn'd, at Pilate's bar;
Here spurn'd by fierce Prætorian bands,
There mock'd by Herod's men of war:
He bears their buffetting and scorn,
Feign'd homage of the lip, the knee,
The purple robe, the crown of thorn,
The scourge, the nail, the' accursed tree.
Arraign'd, condemn'd, at Pilate's bar;
Here spurn'd by fierce Prætorian bands,
There mock'd by Herod's men of war:
He bears their buffetting and scorn,
Feign'd homage of the lip, the knee,
The purple robe, the crown of thorn,
The scourge, the nail, the' accursed tree.
183
No guile within his mouth is found,
He neither threatens nor complains;
Meek as a lamb for slaughter bound,
Dumb midst his murderers He remains:
But hark! He prays;—'tis for his foes;
He speaks;—'tis comfort to his friends;
Answers;—and Paradise bestows;
“'Tis finish'd!”—here the conflict ends.
He neither threatens nor complains;
Meek as a lamb for slaughter bound,
Dumb midst his murderers He remains:
But hark! He prays;—'tis for his foes;
He speaks;—'tis comfort to his friends;
Answers;—and Paradise bestows;
“'Tis finish'd!”—here the conflict ends.
He dies; the veil is rent in twain;
Darkness o'er all the land is spread,
High, without tempest, rolls the main,
Earth trembles, graves give up their dead:
“Truly this was the Son of God!”
—Though in a servant's mean disguise,
And bruised beneath the Father's rod,
Not for Himself,—for Man He dies.
Darkness o'er all the land is spread,
High, without tempest, rolls the main,
Earth trembles, graves give up their dead:
“Truly this was the Son of God!”
—Though in a servant's mean disguise,
And bruised beneath the Father's rod,
Not for Himself,—for Man He dies.
| Greenland (1819) | |