Man, senseless man! canst thou look on,
Nor make thy Saviour's pains thy own?
The rage of all thy grief exert,
Rend thy garments and thy heart:
Beat thy breast, and grovel low,
Beneath the burden of thy woe;
Bleed through thy bowels, tear thy hairs,
Breathe gales of sighs, and weep a flood of tears.
Behold thy King, with purple cover'd round;
Not in the Tyrian tinctures dyed,
Nor dipt in poison of Sidonian pride;
But in his own rich blood that streams from every
wound.
Dost thou not see the thorny circle red?
The guilty wreath that blushes round his head!
And with what rage the bloody scourge applied
Curls round his limbs, and ploughs into his side.
At such a sight let all thy anguish rise;
Break up, break up the fountains of thy eyes.
Here bid thy tears in gushing torrents flow,
Indulge thy grief, and give a loose to woe.
Weep from thy soul, till earth be drown'd;
Weep, till thy sorrows drench the ground.
Canst thou, ungrateful man! his torments see,
Nor drop a tear for him, who pours his blood for
thee?
How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flow'r!
The glory of April and May!
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flow'rs of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield.
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Tho' they bloom and look gay like the rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.
'Tis enough-the hour is come :
Now within the silent tomb
Let this mortal frame decay,
Mingled with its kindred clay;
Since thy mercies, oft of old
By thy chosen seers foretold,
Faithful now and steadfast prove,
God of truth, and God of love!
Since at length my aged eye
Sees the day-spring from on high!
Son of righteousness, to thee,
Lo! the nations bow the knee;
And the realms of distant kings
Own the healing of thy wings.
Those whom death had overspread
With his dark and dreary shade,
Lift their eyes, and from afar
Hail the light of Jacob's Star;
Waiting till the promis'd ray
Turn their darkness into day.
See the beams intensely shed,
Shine o'er Sion's favour'd head!
Never may they hence remove,
God of truth and God of love!
When our heads are bow'd with woe,
When our bitter tears o'erflow;
When we mourn the lost, the dear,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn,
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne,
Thou hast shed the human tear;
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
When the sullen death-bell tolls
For our own departed souls;
When our final doom is near,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
Thou hast bow'd the dying head;
Thou the blood of life hast shed;
Thou hast fill'd a mortal bier;
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
When the heart is sad within
With the thought of all its sin;
When the spirit shrinks with fear,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
Thou the shame, the grief, hast known,
Tho' the sins were not Thine own,
Thou hast deign'd their load to bear,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear!
The son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar!
Who follows in his train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in his train.
The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave ;
Who saw his Master in the sky,
And call'd on Him to save.
Like Him, with pardon on his tongue
In midst of mortal pain,
He pray'd for them that did the wrong!
Who follows in his train?
A glorious band, the chosen few,
On whom the Spirit came;
Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,
And mock'd the cross and flame.
They met the tyrant's brandish'd steel,
The lion's gory mane:
They bow'd their necks, the death to feel!
Who follows in their train?
A noble army-men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,
In robes of light array'd,
They climb'd the steep ascent of Heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain!
Oh, God! to us may grace be given
To follow in their train!
Oh, God! my sins are manifold,
Against my life they cry,
And all my guilty deeds foregone
Up to thy temple fly;
Wilt Thou release my trembling soul,
That to despair is driven?
"Forgive!" a blessed voice replied,
"And thou shalt be forgiven."
My foemen, Lord! are fierce and fell,
They spurn me in their pride,
They render evil for my good,
My patience they deride;
Arise, oh, King! and be the proud
To righteous ruin driven,
"Forgive!" an awful answer came,
"As thou wouldst be forgiven!"
Seven times, oh, Lord! I pardon'd them,
Seven times they sinn'd again :
They practise still to work me woe,
They triumph in my pain;
But let them dread my vengeance now,
To just resentment driven !
"Forgive!" the voice of thunder spake,
"Or never be forgiven!"
CHRISTMAS DAY.
Oh, Saviour, whom this holy morn
Gave to our world below;
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