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 on the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn | 5 |
| 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.” | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet, | |
| They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, | |
| Soft as imprison’d martyr’s death-bed calm. | |
| |
| All turn to sweet—but most of all | |
| That bitterest to the lip of pride, | 20 |
| When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, | |
| Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, | |
| Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear | |
| When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near. | |
| |
| Then like a long-forgotten strain | 25 |
| Comes sweeping o’er the heart forlorn | |
| What sunshine hours had taught in vain. | |
| Of Jesus suffering shame and scorn, | |
| As in all lowly hearts He suffers still, | |
| While we triumphant ride, and have the world at will. | 30 |
| |
| 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, | |
| He who with one rough word, 1 some early day, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distress’d, | |
| That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest. | |
| |
| Oh! shame beyond the bitterest thought | |
| That evil spirit ever fram’d, | |
| That sinners know what Jesus wrought, | 45 |
| Yet feel their haughty hearts untam’d— | |
| That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, | |
| Should wince and fret at this world’s little loss. | |
| |
| Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry, | |
| Let not Thy blood on earth be spent— | 50 |
| Lo, 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. | |
| |
| Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, | 55 |
| O let my heart no further roam; | |
| ’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. | 60 |
