Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/77



Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry, Let not Thy blood on earth be spent - 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, 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.


 * As for thee also, by the blood of thy covenant I have sent forth thy prisoners out of the pit wherein is no water. Zechariah ix. 11.

At length the worst is o'er, and Thou art laid Deep in Thy darksome bed; All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone Thy sacred form is gone; Around those lips where power and mercy hung, The dews of deaths have clung; The dull earth o'er Thee, and Thy foes around, Thou sleep'st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.

Sleep'st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled, At large among the dead? Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice Wake Abraham to rejoice, Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controls The thronging band of souls; That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.

Where'er Thou roam'st, one happy soul, we know, Seen at Thy side in woe, Waits on Thy triumphs—even as all the blest With him and Thee shall rest. Each on his cross; by Thee we hang a while, Watching Thy patient smile, Till we have learned to say, "'Tis justly done, Only in glory, LORD, Thy sinful servant own."