Classic Poem

The traitor comes, with russian crew:
“Good master, hail,” the traitor cries,
Then gives the signal kiss; anew
The traitor calls, “hold fast your prize.”

Whither ye rude, unhallow'd hands,
My Lord, my Saviour, will ye bear?
O must the prince of life these bands
Of vilest ignominy wear?

He must; ev'n he, whose voice could bring
His father's legions down to earth;
Ten thousand thousand on the wing,
To guard his life who sang his birth.

He must; all rescue he declines:
“Else oracles in vain foretell
“Eternal wisdom's great designs,
“To save a guilty world from hell.”

Behold, the willing victim goes,
As a meek lamb to slaughter led:
What noble fortitude he shews!
His look, how calm! erect, his head!

O Jesus, should thy cause require
My blood its heav'n-born truth to seal;
Me, in that trying day, inspire
With thy divinely-glowing zeal.