And vainly, vainly!—No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!—Something that may bear
The spirit up on slow, yet mighty wings,
Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something, all fill'd
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.
—Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it now—
Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush
All billows of the soul, ev'n like His voice
That said of old—"Be still!"—Sing me that strain—
—"The Saviour's dying hour."
Jessy sings to the Harp.
Oh! Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round Thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and th' abandonment,
The dark amaze of Death;
All upon Thee too fall,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
But the keen pang
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
Th' uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick strong heart;
This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling Love and Death,
Surely was not for Thee,
Holy one! Son of God!
Yes, my Redeemer!
Ev'n this cup was thine!
Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
Ev'n midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour;
Ev'n on Thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call'd Thee back!
And weeping eyes of Love
Unto thy heart's deep cove,
Pierc'd thro' the folds of Death's mysterious veil,
—Sufferer! thou Son of Man!
Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of th' atoning Cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom,
Thence imbibing heavenly Love, had lain;
He, a pale sad watcher,
Met with looks of anguish,
All the anguish in Thy last meek glance—
Dying Son of Man!
Oh! therefore unto Thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
