Classic Poem

O Thou whom angels with their hymns address!
To whom all knees must bow, all tongues confess!
Sacred to thee, this sacrifice of praise
A willing hand upon thy altar lays;
Encourag'd by that goodness which approves
A poor man's gift, tho but a pair of doves.
May I have one accepting smile from thee;
'Tis more than all the world's applause to me.
Happy! if I a contrite spirit bring,
And feel my breast warm'd with the love I sing;
Happy! if these my songs successful prove
To make one sinner look on thee, and love;
To make one prodigal confess thy charms,
And fly for pardon to thy dying arms;
To fan their pious flame who thee adore,
And make the souls that love thee, love thee more;
Make 'em their praises and their vows renew,
And give their all to thee, to whom all hearts are due.

Lord, what a train of woes attend thy way
From dark Gethsemane to Golgotha!
What gloomy terrors did conspire to roll
Thro' all th' apartments of thy inmost soul!
What troubles in thy lab'ring bosom met,
And flow'd in tears, flow'd in a bloody sweat!
What clouds, with thunder charg'd, black horror spread!
And broke with storms of vengeance on thy head!
This dismal night a darker morn portends:
Seiz'd by thy foes, abandon'd by thy friends:
By one of them abjur'd, by one betray'd,
And with a treacherous kiss a pris'ner made:
From one tribunal to another led,
New pretexts sought thy sacred blood to shed:
Charg'd with those crimes thy righteous soul abhor'd,
And there condemn'd where thou shouldst be ador'd.
Humble and meek the passive victim stands,
By vilest tongues blasphem'd, and struck by rudest hands.
A prince to universal empire born,
Scepters his hand, and crowns his head had worn,
Now holds a reed, and wears a wreath of thorn.
The savage croud the king of glory jeers,
With loud reproaches wound his patient ears,
And mix their foaming spittle with his tears,

And now with slow and feeble pace I try
To trace thy footsteps up mount Calvary:
There see those hands, that made and scatter'd bread,
And thousands with the growing banquet fed,
Those hands that heal'd the sick, and rais'd the dead;
That oft returning sinners did embrace,
And for them oft implor'd forgiving grace,
With pious ardor lifted up to heaven,
Now pierc'd with nails, amid their sinews driven:
Thy sacred feet the same rude treatment know,
And both in purple streams their torment show.
I see that face which angels bow'd before,
Clouded with sorrow, bath'd in sweat and gore:
Those eyes that, mov'd with pity, did condole
The various woes of every human soul,
And stain'd their lustre with their pious streams,
In shades of death now quench their setting beams.
With cruel men the powers of hell below
The last efforts of active malice show,
And at thy breast their fiery arrows throw.

Thy father, who, before the world, decreed
His only son for human kind shou'd bleed,
His hand with thunder arms, his brow with dread,
To strike thee to the regions of the dead:
My God, my God , aloud the Saviour cries,
Why hast forsaken me? then bows his head and dies.

His passion universal nature moves,
Except ungrateful sinners whom he loves:
The trembling earth her maker's sufferings feels,
Her pillars shake, her low foundation reels:
The rocks are torn by his expiring groans;
The rending vale his sacred priesthood owns:
The sun asham'd withdraws his sickly light,
And turns bright noon into substantial night,
Afraid to view those ghastly wounds agen.
Nothing relentless but the hearts of men!

Dear Lord! I in thy cross such wonders see,
Nothing besides has any charms for me;
Beneath thy cross, O may I still reside;
View and review thy feet, thy hands, thy head, thy side!
O how thy sighs do from my heart rebound!
And all thy dying pangs my bosom wound!
Nor is it pity only makes me weep:
No single passion strikes the heart so deep:
Hatred of sin, and love of thee combine,
With holy rage repenting sorrows join
To make thy torments intimately mine.
Since 'twas my sin for which my Saviour dy'd,
'Tis just I should with him be crucify'd:
My sins procur'd the cross, the whip, the steel,
Made thee unutterable tortures feel:
My sins! O that they never had been mine!
I hate them as my enemies and thine:
My sins! O how their horror makes me start,
While I behold their stains, and feel their smart,
And see 'em pierce thy limbs, and break thy heart!

But since the balm, that from thy wounds did slide,
Could heal a sinner dying at thy side;
Thy smiles could calm frail Peter's guilty fears,
And thy blood cleanse the stain that he had soak'd in tears:
Since thou hast borne th' unsufferable weight
Of a world's sins, both numberless and great;
Lord , hear a penitent that prostrate lies,
And at thy feet for pard'ning mercy cries;
To be reveng'd on sin implores thy aid,
Bathing with tears thy wounds, the wounds his sins have made.
O let thy hands that bled, their balm apply!
Tho sin cries loud, thy blood does louder cry;
Thy smiles will make me live, thy frowns will make me die.

But if I die, I'll perish at thy feet,
And waiting at thy cross thy sentence meet.
Sure he, who dy'd for sinners, won't despise
A sinner's broken heart and flowing eyes.
O Lord , resolve my doubts, dispel my fears,
Suppress my sighs, and wipe away my tears;
Or while thy charms my wondring thoughts employ,
Turn floods of sorrow into tears of joy.

'Tis done — Thy groans and cries thy love resound,
Writ with thy blood, ingrav'd in ev'ry wound:
The torture of thy cross my pain allays,
Changing my mournful sighs to hymns of praise.

O J ESUS ! how divinely fair thou art!
Thy charms have reach'd the center of my heart;
Thy graces all excite refin'd desire;
How pure the flame fed by celestial fire!
Strong are the bands that hearts in friendship join,
But stronger ties have link'd my soul to thine.
Had I ten thousand hearts, those hearts should be
A voluntary sacrifice to thee;
To thee, whose every scar so fully proves
Thy flame exceeds ten thousand other loves.
O'ercome with love and wonder, I resign
My captive heart, which now no more is mine:
I yield my soul to thy victorious charms,
And fly for grace to thy inviting arms:
Life will be death, if I'm exil'd from thee;
Death will be life, if I thy face may see.

Thy loveliness is equal to thy love,
And far out-shines angelick forms above.
Lord , if thy cross could ne'er thy beauties hide,
How dost thou shine at thy great Father's side!
Where the ambitious flames of glory now
With emulous beams salute thy lightning brow;
Pointing, as in bright clouds they dart around,
Where each rude thorn thy sacred head did wound.

While others thee and their own souls abuse,
Debase their love, and prostitute their muse;
O thou to whom all love and praise belongs!
To thee I give my heart, to thee my songs.
Waters will rise as high as whence they flow:
So minds, that came from heaven, to heaven should go;
With holy fervor to their author move,
Who gave 'em pow'r to think, and pow'r to love.

Eternal beauty! I thy rays admire,
Kindling my flame at that immortal fire,
Where shining seraphs light and cherish theirs:
Thou shalt my praises have, and thou my prayers.

May all harmonious souls their numbers join,
And each a pious offering add to mine;
Make earth below resemble heav'n above,
Sing holy songs, and sing of holy love.
'Tis love does with eternal joys inspire
All the bright orders of the heav'nly choir:
Seraphick psalmists to this noble theme
Owe their sweet musick and poetick flame.
O may the listning saints on earth aspire
To reach the sound, and catch the holy fire!
And in their turn with pure devotion sing
The praises of their Saviour and their King;
Till echo thro' heav'n's arches loud repeats
The sound, inviting angels from their seats
To hear the musick of the church below,
While this from t'other heav'n they scarce can know:
Nor an eclipse of light and pleasure fear,
Where they so much of grace, so much of glory hear.