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Thy birthright in the world was pain and grief,
Thy love's return ingratitude and hate ;
Thou that wert wont to dwell
peace, tongue cannot tell,
Where the proud judge in purple splendour sate; Thou stoodst a meek and patient criminal, Thy doom of death from human lips to wait;
Whose throne shall be the world
In final ruin hurl'd,
When“ Crucify him !” yelled the general shout;
Whose lightest whisper'd word
The Seraphim had heard, And adamantine arms from all the heavens broke out. They bound thy temples with the twisted thorn,
Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain ; The blood from all thy flesh with scourges torn, Deepen'd thy robe of mockery's crimson grain ;
Whose native vesture bright
Was the unapproached light,
They smote thy cheek with many a ruthless palm,
With the cold spear thy shuddering side they pierc'd; The draught of bitterest gall was all the balm They gave, t'enhance thy unslaked, burning thirst :
Thou, at whose words of peace
Did pain and anguish cease, And the long buried dead their bonds of slumber burst. Low bow'd thy head convulsed, and droop'd in death,
Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry; Slow struggled from thy breast the parting breath, And every limb was wrung with agony.
That head, whose veilless blaze
Filld Angels with amaze,
Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding grave clothes bound;
Whom heaven could not contain,
Nor th’immeasurable plain
And thy meek spirit bow'd itself to shame,
Thou, that couldst nothing win
By saving worlds from sin,
Oh ! thou that wilt not break the bruised reed,
Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow, Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed,
The only balm of our afflictions, thou, Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, O God ! To kiss with quivering lips--still humbly kiss thy rod ! We bless thee, Lord, though far from Judah's land; Though our worn limbs are black with stripes and
chains; Though for stern foes we till the burning sand;
And reap, for other's joy, the summer plains ; We bless thee, Lord, for thou art gracious still, Even though this last black drop o’erflow our cup of ill! We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child ;
The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep; The weary hours her graceful sports have 'guiled,
And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep! She was the dove of hope to our lorn ark; The only star that made the stranger's sky less dark ! Our dove is fall’n into the spoiler's net;
Rude bands defile her plumes, so chastely white; To the bereaved their one soft star is set,
And all above is sullen, cheerless night! But still we thank thee for our transient bliss, Yet, Lord, to scourge our sins remain's no way but this?
As when our Father to Mount Moriah led
The blessing's heir, his ages hope and joy, Pleased, as he roam'd along with dancing tread,
Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy,
Bashfully sportive, timorously gay,
Like some light bird from off the quiv'ring spray; And back she glanced, and smiled, in blameless glee, The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance to see. By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent
That bade the sire his murtherous task forego; When to his home the child of Abraham went
His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow. Alas! and lurks there, in the thicket's shade, The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid ? Lord, even through the to hope were now too bold;
Yet 'twere to doubt thy mercy to despair.
To think how sad we are, how blest we were !
Why is she not our own-our treasure still?
Alas! is this to bow us to thy will?
Ah, even our humblest prayers we make repine,
The broken heart thou wilt not, Lord, despise :
Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise. Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord; And though our lips rebel, still make thyself ador'd.
Sing to the Lord ! let harp, and lute, and voice
While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne;
Rich as the purple of the summer morn; Sing the triumphant champions of their God, While burn their mounting feet along their sky-ward
road. Sing to the Lord ! for her in beauty's prime Snatch'd from this wintery earth's ungenial clime
In the eternal spring of Paradise to bloom; For her the world display'd its highest treasure, And the airs panted with the songs of pleasure :
Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb, The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod, Bearing her cross with thee, incarnate Son of God!