The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life :: :: University of Virginia Library

O blessed Picture, let my soul conceive,
And grave Thee on the tablet of my thought;
Wipe out all other records, there to leave
Thee only on my inmost spirit wrought.

O let my anxious heart in Thee find rest,
I know that all things else shall pass away,
Like nightly dreams that haunt th' unquiet breast,
Which flee like shadows at the face of Day.

I know Thou hast descended from above
To teach us what alone is great and good,
I know that all things in the end shall prove
As in Thine own Example they have stood.

For can it be that He Who made the skies
Knows not the value of all things below?
That He sees not aright Who made the eyes,—
That He Who gives all knowledge doth not know?

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Yea, sure I am while we ourselves molest
Where schemes of gain or seeming good abound;
What Thou hast blessèd shall indeed be blest,
What Thou hast callèd good shall so be found.

I see Thee, on that great and dreadful morn,
Bow'd with the weight of Thine own charity,
While nigh o'erwhelm'd with weakness, pain, and scorn,
Thou sayest unto all men, “Follow Me.”

O painful lesson, written in Thy blood,
To follow Thee! O lesson full of pain!
And yet not painful if it is most good,
The pain shall pass away, the good remain.

For all things Thou hast bidden us to do
In Thine own life and dying were portray'd,
In Thine own image found in likeness true,
In colours of Thy woe all living made.

The words Thou spakest on that Teacher's hill
Thou writest here Thyself in Thine own blood,
Opening our eyes to know both good and ill;
This is the mount of Thy beatitude.

For if it blessèd is on earth to mourn,
Bless'd to be merciful, in spirit poor,
To love our enemies and suffer scorn,
Thou art Thyself most blessèd evermore.

What is the lesson Thou from Heaven hast brought?
That seeming ills on earth which mortals fear
In eyes that are in Heaven are all as nought,
And, did we know them rightly, should be dear:

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That all things chosen by the Lord of Light
Are the best gifts that are to mortals given,
For all things are as they are in His sight,
His Cross to man is the sole door of Heaven.

Seek we for rays of comfort from above?
Through the dark valley cheerless was Thy road,
And the withdrawing of Thy Father's love
Like a black thunder-cloud on Thee abode.

Think we in sorrow of ourselves alone?
Upon Thy foes were turn'd Thy pitying eyes,
Thy thoughts were e'en in suffering not Thine own,
Thine arms outstretch'd in dying charities.

Shrink we from penury and hard estate?
Thou hadst but one poor mantle at Thy death,
And that the soldiers, mocking Thy sad fate,
Had made their own before Thy parting breath.

Seek we for pomp and greatness of renown?
Man's glory in that mirror we may scan,
When Pilate led Thee forth with bleeding crown,
And said to gazing crowds, “Behold the Man!”

Behold the Man, of sorrow and of shame,
One deem'd unworthy upon earth to dwell,
“A worm” and “outcast” among men His name,
In God's and Angels' sight “Immanuel.”

Seek we in praise of multitudes to stand?
Blood-stain'd Barabbas was to Thee preferr'd.
Seek we to shine unblam'd on either hand?
Loud were false tongues, but Thy voice was not heard.

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Seek we soft beds to sleep on or to die?
With iron nails upon Thy torturing bed
Thy naked limbs were viewed in agony—
And Mockery stood by Thy dying head.

Thus when we meet Thee at the City's gate
And seek to enter, Thou dost bid us turn
Unto the Mount of Sorrows, there to wait
Till we ourselves and Thee shall better learn.

Alas, how full the road of toil and pain
From earthly Salem to the Heavenly hill!
Each one thereon doth His own Cross sustain,
Some weight, whate'er it be, of human ill:—

A Cross of gold, of silver, or of wood,
Or of mean straw, hid in each shape of life;
Some trial working for eternal good,
Found in the outward state or inward strife.

Something to wean the soul from things of sense,
To higher aim the weak resolve to brace,
To train our thoughts in lowly penitence,
And bring us to the Cross, the Fount of Grace.

Blest woe to Thee that brings us, woe Divine,
Which quicken'd by Thee may the will control,
Or through affection mark one living line
Of Thy celestial Image on the soul.

For to approach Thee must be good indeed
Although most painful: in Thy deepest woes
Healing and virtue from Thy skirts proceed,
And in Thy sorest anguish sure repose.

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O let me rub mine eyes, O take away
Whate'er of passion weighs mine eyelids down,
That I may see the light of endless Day,
And something from Thy sorrows make mine own!

This is the place, O Lord, where I would dwell,
And this is all the wisdom which I need,
To judge of all things and their issue tell;
This is the light where I would all things read.

Not on the Mount with those most favour'd three
Might I approach Thee, but I here may hide,—
Three tabernacles make, that Thou with me
In body, soul and spirit mayst abide.

More blest than Mount of Thy beatitudes,
Or that dread Mount of Thy transforming change;
This is that Sion's hill whence healing floods
Through the world's wilderness with blessings range.

“Be perfect as your Father is in Heaven,”
So spake the Son; from courts of Seraphim
A Voice responsive through the cloud was given,
“This is My Son belovèd, hear ye Him.”

Before assembled worlds that He hath made
Th' Almighty Father from His bosom brings
Th' Almighty Son, in pain and shame array'd,
In suffering bow'd 'neath all created things:

And unto lost mankind He calls aloud,—
“Ye who become not as this little Child
Shall enter not with Him the living Cloud,
Children of Heaven, in mercy reconcil'd.”

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“Let Us in Our own Image make mankind,”
So spake the Almighty Father; to His will
The Son submissively His head inclin'd,
And took our form that He might that fulfil;—

And answer'd meekly, “It is finish'd!”
So we must bear the Cross, and one by one
With Thee on earth be number'd with the dead,
And rise in life like Thee, the living Son.

The Alpha and Omega, First and Last,
Slain ere foundations of the world were laid,
And on the Cross ere heaven and earth be past,
Gathering Thy children 'neath its hallow'd shade.

Ye vain deluding vanities, depart,
Be still, ye tumults of the impassion'd mind:
Let lowly Reverence hold the silent heart,
That God may in His temple entrance find.

Idols of pride, tables of merchandize,
Depart ye hence without the temple gate:
Let little children sing His welcome praise,
The lowly thoughts that on His Coming wait!

Loud are the sounds on all sides which would call
My spirit from Thee, all the clamorous brood
Of hopes and fears which the vain heart enthrall,
And touch the spirit in her solitude.

Alas, I must divest and cast aside
All that in me is mine—I must forego
My very self, that with me may abide
Thy Spirit, and may teach me Thee to know.

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O let me touch Thy garment, vile and mean,
But full of healing, full of holiness;—
Alas, love we in splendour to be seen
Rather than meanness Thou hast deign'd to bless?

E'en as thine own mean garment, so didst Thou
Wrap all around Thee painful poverty!
Thy ministers were Sorrows; on Thy brow
Was set the brand of bitter infamy,—

E'en as a kingly Crown: Thy sceptre mild
Was but the meek endurance of all wrong,
That reed of mockery; while like a child
Thou conqueredst Thy foeman great and strong.

Still as I gaze on Thee my tears will swell,
The things of which I glory drop away,
Nothing but of my sorrows would I tell,
So many are my sins, so short my day.

O let me not, for this my harden'd heart,
Be yielded up, like false-soul'd Caiaphas;
With Judas or Barabbas take my part,
Or with the multitudes that mocking pass.

Oh, let me here abide my short-lived days,
And hide me! from myself I fain would flee;
To go hence to the world and seek its praise
Is to shake hands with that which murder'd Thee.

Let me think o'er Thy sayings,—on them dwell,
And fathom in each word the depths divine,
Drinking the sweetness from the Rocky cell,
And hide me in Thee as a hallow'd shrine.

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Infinite sweetness, wisdom infinite
Dwells in the words Thy sacred lips have told,
E'en like the stars that fill the Heaven at night,
Exhaustless, fresh, and beauteous as of old.

Yea, all Thy words disclose themselves a Heaven,
Full of great meanings, growing as we gaze;
Stars one by one come forth, until 'tis given
To see the skies alive with shining rays.

Nay, stars to us are dead, however bright;
Thy words are very life, by them we live,
Our food, and vital air, and Heaven-born light,
Which to our souls bloom, strength, and beauty give.

The Painter labours with his toilsome art
To paint Thee in the colours of the sky,
Rifles all nature, borrows from the heart,—
To deck and hallow some blest sanctuary.

Art and its work shall perish, fast each hue
From the unwilling canvas fades away,
The outward form alone it brings to view,
Which must be chang'd to everlasting Day.

Faith paints Thine Image on the soul in love
With Heavenly graces like unfading dyes,
To have a place in temples hid above,
And gains her colours from the unseen skies.

In Thine own Word by Thy good Spirit wrought
We see the portrait of Thy dying pains,
Thence to our souls by that good Spirit brought
Something of Thee th' obedient heart attains.

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O blessèd picture, on Thee let me gaze,
In Thee my weary spirit finds repose,
My spirit flies from men's polluted ways,
And drinks of sad refreshing at Thy woes.

If I believe this is th' eternal Light,
The Light that changes not, and cannot wane,
Then all things, as departs this life's short night,
Appear as Thou hast said, and so remain.