The Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook of The Christian Recorder Vol. 2, Issue 7 (1820-September)

“——‘since he has gone

I ask no earthly hope—be thou,

Oh Israel’s God! my portion now:

And, when the pangs of memory prey

On my cold heart, be thou my stay,

And teach my sinking heart to say,

‘It is the Lord—His will be done.’

“She ceased—upon the green hill’s brow

A cloud of dust was gathering now:

Hark! through the light air echoing loud

The murmurs of a mingled crowd.

Onward the tumult rolls—’tis near—

They listen, mute with breathless fear:

Is it the lordly Roman’s car?

The pomp and pageantry of war:

Where Zion’s sons must swell the train,

Of foes their inmost souls disdain?

Or those bold warriors—wild, yet free—

The rebel bands of Galilee?

No—they are brethren—and that cry

Is the glad shout of victory:

’Tis high Hosanna’s loud acclaim,

’Tis royal David’s honoured name.

And now they wind the steep descent—

The glance, in swift inquiry bent,

Wandered o’er all, but fixed on one—

Circled by numbers, yet alone.

Robed in the garb of poverty,

Nor king, nor priest, nor warrior he;

Yet—why they knew not—in his mien

A latent loftiness was seen:

A more than mortal majesty,

That daunted while it fixed the eye.

The countless throng that round him pressed,

To him their songs of praise addressed;

Not thus had Abram’s seed adored,

A heathen chief—an earthly lord.

They come—they meet—but, ere they past

One gracious, pitying look he cast

On that pale mourner—marked her tear,

And bade her weep not;'—to the bier

He turned—but ere he spoke his will,

Each trembled with a sudden thrill

Of conscious awe—the train stood still!

“The mourner—speechless and amazed,

On that mysterious stranger gazed.

If young he were, ’twas only seen

From lines that told what once had been;—

As if the withering hand of Time

Had smote him ere he reached his prime.

The bright rose on his cheek was faded;

His pale fair brow with sadness shaded—

Yet through the settled sorrow there

A conscious grandeur flashed—which told

Unswayed by man, and uncontrolled,

Himself had deigned their lot to share,

And borne—because he willed to bear.

Whate’er his being, or his birth,

His soul had never stooped to earth;

Nor mingled with the meaner race,

Who shared or swayed his dwelling place;

But high—mysterious—and unknown,

Held converse with itself alone:

And yet the look that could depress

Pride to its native nothingness;

And bid the spacious boaster shun

The eye he dared not gaze upon,

Superior love did still reveal—

Not such as man for man may feel—

No—all was passionless and pure—

That godlike majesty of woe,

Which counts a glory to endure—

And knows nor hope nor fear below;

Nor aught that still to earth can bind,

But love and pity for mankind.

And in his eye a radiance shone—

Oh! how shall mortal dare essay,

On whom no prophet’s vest is thrown,

To paint that pure celestial ray?

Mercy, and tenderness, and love,

And all that finite sense can deem

Of him who reigns enthroned above;—

Light—such as blest Isaiah’s dream,

When to the awe-struck Prophet’s eyes,

God bade the star of Judas rise—

There heaven in living lustre glowed—

There shone the Saviour—there the God.

Oh ye—to whom the dying Lord

Your sorrows—not his own—deplored;

Thou, on whose guild the Saviour cast

A look of mercy—’twas his last:

Ye—who beheld when Jesus died,

Say ye—for none can tell beside,

How matchless grace, and love divine,

In that immortal glance would shine.

And she too felt and owned its power

To soothe in that despairing hour;

Her pulse beat quick—and to her heart

A ray of rapture seemed to dart:—

The cloud that hung upon her brow

Wore off—and all was comfort now;—

And why? she thought not on the dead—

Her sight on Him was riveted,

Whose look such peace and glory shed:—

So the wan captive, o’er whose cell

No solitary sunbeam fell;

When years and years have lingered by,

Restored to light and liberty,

Fixes his first enraptured gaze

Upon the bright sun’s living rays.

‘Short space he stood—his living eyes

To heaven a moment raised—he spoke—

These words the solemn silence broke;

‘Young man, I say to thee, arise!’

“Where is thy victory, oh Death?

A nobler, mightier arm than thine

Has shook the dark abodes beneath,

And bade the grave her prey resign.

Jesus, thy victor and thy Lord,

Has rent thy once resistless sword:

Fell tyrant of the fatal brow.

Where are thy vaunted triumphs now?

He moves—he breathes—he lives—he wakes—

Swift as the vivid lightning breaks

Through the black tempest’s murky night,

His eye unclosed to life and light;

The crimson to his pale cheek rushed—

To his cold heart the life blood gushed,

And circled quick through every vein,

And waked the fluttering pulse again.

Round his closed lips—still unefaced

Had fixed the smile with which he died;

Death’s marble look so well it graced,

One only charm seemed still denied—

’Twas life—and what are all beside?

Where is that mortal paleness fled?

Is that the cold smile of the dead?

Away! thou ‘busy fiend’ Despair,

’Tis life itself that kindles there.

’Tis life! by that almighty word

His mortal being is restored.

And reason flashes to his brain,

And mind and memory wake again.

Whate’er in other worlds he saw

Man knows not—none can ever know—

But peace—and joy—and holy awe

Still lightened lingering on his brow,

And o’er his face a lustre shed—

Not of the living, or the dead.

‘Where am I? whither are ye fled

Fair visions of celestial light,

That seem’d to hover o’er my head

Oh! bear me with you in your flight.

Can this be earth—and must I deem

’Twas all an unsubstantial dream?

’Tis strange—light faded from mine eye,

And on my brow such darkness fell

As none have ever lived to tell.

That last mysterious agony

Which throbs—and man has ceased to be;

The frame is clay—the soul is free.

I deemed this change had passed on me,

And my light spirit soared on high,

I know not where—from memory

All passed with life’s returning breath;—

Yet still I feel, if such be death,

’Tis blessedness to die.

But speak—what means this sable bier,

This funeral train—whence, came I here?

Ha! thou too, mother—thou so near,

And I beheld thee not— * * *

* * * * * * *

“Did Nature’s last convulsive thrill

Press heavy on her beating brow,

That gentle voice had soothed her still—

And yet she hears not—heeds not now—

She heard in hope, and holy dread,

The awful words that raised the dead:

She saw the spirit kindle o’er

His pale cold cheek—she saw no more—

Rushed she not forth to clasp her son?

No! to that high and holy One.

Urged with resistless zeal she turned,

Her breast with strong emotions burned—

As lowly at his feet she knelt,

Well might her throbbing bosom melt

With faith and love, till now unfelt;

’Twas God himself she gazed upon.

Her favoured soul was given to see,

The pure incarnate Deity

And speech and sight and spirit failed

Before the Godhead, though ’twas veiled

Burning with gratitude and love,

For utterance long in vain she strove:

At length she spoke—‘My God! my Lord!

‘Oh! for that mercy all divine

‘Which deigned to visit guilt like mine,

‘For ever be thy name adored.

‘To thee let ransomed Zion bow,

‘Her King, her promised Saviour, Thou!”