Classic Poem

For thou didst die for me, O Son of God!
By thee the throbbing flesh of man was worn;
Thy naked feet the thorns of sorrow trod,
And tempests beat thy houseless head forlorn.
Thou, that wert wont to stand
Alone, on God's right hand,
Before the ages were, the Eternal, eldest born.

Thy birthright in the word was pain and grief,
Thy love's return in gratitude and hate;
The limbs thou healedst brought thee no relief,
The eyes thou openedst calmly viewed thy fate:
Thou, that wert wont to dwell
In peace, tongue cannot tell
Nor heart conceive the bliss of thy celestial state.

They dragged thee to the Roman's solemn hall,
Where the proud judge in purple splendour sate;
Thou stoodst a meek and patient criminal,
Thy doom of death from human lips to wait;
Whose throne shall be the world
In final ruin hurled,
With all mankind to hear their everlasting fate.

Thou wert alone in that fierce multitude
When " Crucify him!" yelled the general shout;
No hand to guard thee " mid those insults rude,
Nor lip to bless in all that frantic rout;
Whose lightest whispered word
The Seraphim had heard,
And adamantine arms from all the heaven broke out.

They bound thy temples with the twisted thorn,
Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain;
Thy blood, from all thy flesh with scourges torn,
Deepened thy robe of mockery's crimson grain;
Whose native vesture bright
Was the unapproached light,
The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane.

They smote thy cheek with many a ruthless palm,
With the cold spear thy shuddering side they pierced;
The draught of bitterest gall was all the balm
They gave, to enhance thy unslaked, burning thirst:
Thou at whose words of peace
Did pain and anguish cease,
And the long-buried dead their bonds of slumber burst.

Low bowed thy head convulsed and drooped in death,
Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry;
Slow struggled from thy breast the parting breath,
And every limb was wrung with agony:
That head, whose veilless blaze
Filled angels with amaze,
When at that voice sprang forth the rolling suns on high.

And thou wert laid within the narrow tomb,
Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding grave-clothes bound;
The sealed stone confirmed thy mortal doom,
Lone watchmen walked thy desert burial-ground,
Whom heaven could not contain,
Not the immeasurable plain
Of vast infinity inclose or circle round.

For us, for us, thou didst endure the pain,
And thy meek spirit bowed itself to shame,
To wash our souls from sin's infecting stain,
To avert the Father's wrathful vengeance flame.
Thou that could'st nothing win
By saving worlds from sin,
Nor aught of glory add to thy all-glorious name.