GOOD FRIDAY. He is despised and rejected of men. Isaiah liii. 3. Is it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawn'd on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power For comfort, than an angel's mirth? That to the Cross the mourner's eye should turn Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn? Sooner than where the Easter sun Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run, "Who died to heal, is ris'n to save." Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends. Yet so it is: for duly there The bitter herbs of earth are set, Till temper'd by the Saviour's prayer, And with the Saviour's life-blood wet, They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, Soft as imprison'd martyr's deathbed calm. All turn to sweet-but most of all Then like a long-forgotten strain While we triumphant ride and have the world at will. His pierced hands in vain would hide His face from rude reproachful gaze, His ears are open to abide The wildest storm the tongue can raise, 1 He who with one rough word1, some early day, Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away. But we by Fancy may assuage The festering sore by Fancy made, Down in some lonely hermitage Like wounded pilgrims safely laid, Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distress'd, Oh! shame beyond the bitterest thought That sinners know what Jesus wrought, Yet feel their haughty hearts untam’d— That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, Lord of my heart, by thy last cry, Let not thy blood on earth be spentLo, at thy feet I fainting lie, Mine eyes upon thy wounds are bent, Upon thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parched earth on April skies. Wisdom of Solomon xii. 9. Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, 'Tis thine by vows, and hopes, and fears, Long since-O call thy wanderer home; To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide. EASTER EVE. As for thee also, by the blood of thy covenant I have seut forth thy prisoners ont of the pit wherein is no water. Zech. ix. II. AT length the worst is o'er, and Thou art laid All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone Around those lips where power and mercy hung, The dull earth o'er Thee, and thy foes around, Thou sleep'st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound. Sleep'st Thou indeed? or is thy Spirit fled, Whether in Eden bowers thy welcome voice Or in some drearier scene thine eye controuls That, as thy blood won earth, thine agony Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free. |