Classic Poem

The world is but a sorry scene,
Untrue, unhallow'd, and unclean,
And hardly worth a man;
The fiend upon the land prevails,
And o'er the floods in triumph sails,
Do goodness all she can.

How many works for such a day?
How glorious? that ye scourge and slay
Ye blind, by blinder led;
All hearts at once devising bad,
Hands, mouths against their Maker mad,
With Satan at the head—

Are these the race of saints profest,
That for authorities contest,
And question and debate?
Yet in so foul a deed rebell,
Beyond example, ev'n from hell,
To match its barb'rous hate.

Behold the man! the tyrant said,
As in the robes of scoff array'd,
And crown'd with thorns he stood;
And feigning will to let him go
He chose Barabbas, open foe
Of human kind and good.

And was it He, whose voice divine,
Could change the water into wine,
And first his pow'r averr'd;
Which fed in Galilea's groves
The fainting thousands with the loaves
And fishes of his word!

And was it He, whose mandate freed
The palsied suppliant, and in deed
The sabbath-day rever'd;
Which bade the thankful dumb proclaim
The Lord omnipotent by name,
Till loosen'd deafness heard!

And was it He, whose hand was such,
As lighten'd blindness at a touch,
And made the lepers whole;
Could to the dropsy health afford,
And to the lunatic restor'd
Serenity of soul!

The daughter that so long a term
By Satan's bonds had been infirm,
Was rescued and receiv'd;
Yea, with the foes of faith and hope
His matchless charity cou'd cope,
When Malchus was reliev'd.

The woman in his garment's hem
Conceiv'd a prevalence to stem
The sources of her pain;
He calls—the dead from death arise,
And as their legions he defies
The dev'ls descend again.

His irresistable command
Convey'd the vessel to the land,
As instant as his thought;
He caus'd the tempest to forget
Its rage, and into Peter's net,
The wond'rous capture brought.

The roarings of the billows cease
To hear the gospel of his peace
Upon the still profound—
He walk'd the waves—and at his will,
The fish to pay th' exactor's bill
To Judah's coast was bound.

The wither'd hand he saw and cur'd,
And health from gen'ral ail secur'd
Where'er disease was rife;
And was omniscient to tell
The woman at the patriarch's well
The story of her life.

But never since the world was known,
One so stupendous as his own,
And rich of vast event;
From love ador'd, as soon as seen,
Had not his hated message been
To bid the world repent.

Ah, still desirous of a king,
To give voluptuous vice its swing
With passions like a brute;
By Jesus Christ came truth and grace,
But none indulgence, pension, place,
The slaves of SELF to suit.

The Lord on Gabbatha they doom,
Before the delegate of Rome,
Deserted and exposed—
They might have thought on Israel's God,
Which on the sapphire pavement trod,
To sev'nty seers disclos'd.

They might have thought upon the loss
Of Eden, and the dreadful cross
That happen'd by a tree;
Ere yet with cursed throats they shout
To bring the dire event about,
Tho' prophesy'd to be.

O God, the bonds of sin enlarge,
Lay not this horror to our charge,
But as we fast and weep,
Pour out the streams of love profuse,
Let all the pow'rs of mercy loose,
While wrath and vengeance sleep.