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Yė vaulted cells where martyr'd seers of old

Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep, Green terraces and arched fountains cold,

Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep, Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe, Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low:

One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be:

Th’unearthly thoughts have pass'd from earth away, And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea

Thy footsteps all in Sion's deep decay Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear Is every stone of hers; for Thou wast surely here.

There is a spot within this sacred dale

That felt Theekneeling-touch'd thy prostratebrow: One angel knows it. O might prayer avail

To win that knowledge ! sure each holy vow Less quickly from th’ unstable soul would fade, Offer'd where Christ in agony was laid.

Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood

That from His aching brow by moonlight fell,

Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood,

Till they had fram'd within a guardian spell
To chase repining fancies, as they rise,
Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.

So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams ;

Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o’erflow, Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams

From thy dear name, where in His page of woe It shines, a pale kind star in winter's sky? Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.


They gave him to drink wine mingled with myrrh : but he received it not. St. Mark xv. 23.

“ FILL high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour “ The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp,

“ The Cross is sharp, and He
66 Is tenderer than a lamb.

“ He wept by Lazarus' grave-how will He bear “ This bed of anguish ? and his pale weak form

66 Is worn with

many a watch

“Of sorrow and unrest.

“ His sweat last night was as great drops of blood,
" And the sad burthen press’d him so to earth,

“ The very torturers paus’d
“ To help Him on His way.


“ Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense
“ With medicin’d sleep.”—0 awful in thy woe!

The parching thirst of death
Is on thee, and thou triest

The slumbrous potion bland, and wilt not drink:
Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man

With suicidal hand
Putting his solace by:

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
Made heir, and emptied of thy glory' awhile,

With unaverted eye
Thou meetest all the storm.

Thou wilt feel all, that Thou may’st pity all;
And rather wouldst Thou wrestle with strong pain,

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
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,

And bid her freely welcome, unbeguild
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,"
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,

And in her Father's arms
Contented dies away.

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Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done. St. Luke xxii. 42.

O LORD my God, do Thou thy holy will

I will lie still
I will not stir, lest I forsake thine arm,

And break the charm,
Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast,

In perfect rest.

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