Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/43

42

that countenance, where grief and love Blend with ineffable benignity, And deep, unuttered majesty divine.

Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart, And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe?— Redeemer, is it thine?—And is this feast, Thy last on earth?—Why do the chosen few, Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand As men transfixed with horror?—

Ah! I hear The appalling answer, from those lips divine, "One of you shall betray me."—

One of these?— Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers, Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant Turns to the rain of summer?—One of these!— Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops The loved disciple, as if life's warm spring Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock Of unimagined guilt.—See, his whole soul Concentered in his eye, the man who walked The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts The horror-struck inquiry,—"Is it I?