Say what is Babylon, low sunk in earth? Or what Palmyra in the dreary waste, The soul immortal, doom'd to joy or woe? There once impress'd was God the Father's image; But now that image is defac'd by sin. O'er Greece's ruins once the traveller wept, 111 As he look'd back upon her former glory, On him who died, that man might live again. Away thou folly of an empty world, Thou airy bubble gilded by the sun! 130 Come to my heart, thou sovereign hope of Heaven, Reign o'er my actions and my wandering thoughts; My bed of death illuminate; and lead A son of sorrow to his father's home. O what is life without the love of God, Thy moments are eternal: Time was not, 140 Thou didst exist; and thou shalt still move on When time shall sweep his iron scythe no more. O then receive me to thy arms my God! Upon a cross, behold the king of glory, The man who dies for a rebellious world, The wrath of God here centres on the head 150 Bright seraphs burning round Jehovah's throne, Strike their full harps and chant redeeming grace. Dark rose the hill where stood the Saviour's cross The scene of love; and blackest deed of hell. Where erst the father of the faithful, bound His son (so 'tis believ'd) by God's command*, Surrounding armies aw'd the multitude, And Rome appear'd in her assembled hosts. Dim by the Cross stalk'd Cruelty and Rage, 160 And pierc'd the Saviour's bosom with their sting. Fell mockery breath'd its most reproachful taunts, And shouts of exultation rent the air. Serene, conspicuous hung the dying God. His sacred head is pierc'd with horrid thorns. His arms are nail'd to the accursed tree. His bosom opened by a Soldier's spear. No curse, or threatening pass his placid lips; He prays for blessings on the murderer's head. Father have mercy! on my thoughtless foes, Have mercy God! they know not what they do. 'Tis finish'd...cries the Saviour, while he dies, And yields his spirit to his Father's hands. 170 * The mountain upon which Abraham was about to sacrifice his son Isaac, is supposed by some, and upon no improbable grounds, to have been the same mountain on which Christ suffered on his cross. GISBORNE'S SURVEY. Nature beheld the awful scene with dread. The source of Being dying on the cross, The sun grew dim, dark shadows quench'd his beam, And Night's thick mantle fell upon the world; 180 The mighty work of Christ is now perform'd. A world is ransom'd from the depths of woe. Justice has sheath'd the dreadful sword of wrath; And God is reconcil'd with sinful man. The weary traveller now rests in peace; 190 The Saviour rests; the tomb receives his prey With chilling arms. The voice of mockery, The taunt of malice, and the shout of triumph Strike on his ear no more. That eye which look'd |