“FILL high the bowl, and spice it well and pour | |
| The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp, | |
| The Cross is sharp, and He | |
| Is tenderer than a lamb. | |
| |
| “He wept by Lazarus’ grave—how will He bear | 5 |
| This bed of anguish? And His pale weak form | |
| Is worn with many a watch | |
| Of sorrow and unrest. | |
| |
| “His sweat last night was as great drops of blood, | |
| And the sad burthen pressed Him so to earth, | 10 |
| The very torturers paus’d | |
| To help Him on His way. | |
| |
| “Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense | |
| With medicin’d sleep.”—O awful is Thy woe! | |
| The parching thirst of death | 15 |
| Is on Thee, and Thou triest | |
| |
| The slumbrous potion bland, and wilt not drink: | |
| Nor sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man | |
| With suicidal hand | |
| Putting his solace by: | 20 |
| |
| But as at first Thine all-pervading look | |
| Saw from Thy Father’s bosom to th’ abyss | |
| Measuring in calm presage | |
| The infinite descent; | |
| |
| So to the end, though now of mortal pangs | 25 |
| Made heir, and emptied of Thy glory awhile, | |
| With unaverted eye | |
| Thou meetest all the storm. | |
| |
| Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayest pity all; | |
| And rather wouldst Thou wrestle with strong pain, | 30 |
| Than overcloud Thy soul | |
| So clear in agony. | |
| |
| Or lose one glimpse of heaven before the time. | |
| O most entire and perfect sacrifice, | |
| Renew’d in every pulse | 35 |
| That on the tedious Cross | |
| |
| Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, | |
| The life strings of that tender heart gave way. | |
| Even sinners, taught by Thee | |
| Look Sorrow in the face, | 40 |
| |
| And bid her freely welcome, unbeguil’d | |
| By false kind solaces, and spells of earth: | |
| And yet not all unsooth’d; | |
| For when was Joy so dear, | |
| |
| As the deep calm that breath’d, “Father, forgive,” | 45 |
| Or “Be with me in Paradise to-day!” | |
| And, though the strife be sore, | |
| Yet in His parting breath | |
| |
| Love masters agony; the soul that seem’d | |
| Forsaken, feels her present God again, | 50 |
| And in her Father’s arms | |
| Contented dies away. | |
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