None the place ordained refuseth,
They are one, and they are all
Living stones, the Builder chooseth
For the courses of His wall.
Now Thy work by us fulfilling,
Build us in Thy house divine;
Each one cries, “I, Lord, am willing,
Whatsoever place be mine.”
Some, of every eye beholden,
Hewn to fitness for the height,
By Thy hand to beauty moulden,
Show Thy workmanship in light.
Other, Thou dost bless with station
Dark, and of the foot downtrod,
Sink them deep in the foundation—
Buried, hid with Christ in God.
“There was darkness.”
A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom—
Shocks and tremblings dread;
All the city sunk in gloom—
Thick darkness overhead.
An awful Sufferer straight and stark;
Mocking voices fell;
Tremblings—tremblings in the dark,
In heaven, and earth, and hell.
Groping, stumbling up the way,
They pass, whom Christ forgave;
They know not what they do—they say,
“Himself He cannot save.
On His head behold the crown
That alien hands did weave;
Let Him come down, let Him come down,
And we will believe!”
Fearsome dreams, a rending veil,
Cloven rocks down hurl’d;
God’s love itself doth seem to fail
The Saviour of the world.
Dying thieves do curse and wail,
Either side is scorn;
Lo! He hangs while some cry “Hail!”
Of heaven and earth forlorn.
Still o’er His passion darkness lowers,
He nears the deathly goal;
But He shall see in His last hours
Of the travail of His soul;
Lo, a cry!—the firstfruits given
On the accursed tree—
“Dying Love of God in heaven,
Lord, remember me!”
By His sacrifice, foreknown
Long ages ere that day,
And by God’s sparing of His own
Our debt of death to pay;
By the Comforter’s consent,
With ardent flames bestow’d,
In this dear race when Jesus went
To make His mean abode—
By the pangs God look’d not on,
And the world dared not see;
By all redeeming wonders won
Through that dread mystery;—
Lord, receive once more the sigh
From the accursed tree—
“Sacred Love of God most high,
O remember me!”
“While it was yet dark.”
Mary of Magdala, when the moon had set,
Forth to the garden that was with night dews wet,
Fared in the dark—woe-wan and bent was she,
‘Neath many pounds’ weight of fragrant spicery.
Mary of Magdala, in her misery,
“Who shall roll the stone up from yon door?” quoth she;
And trembling down the steep she went, and wept sore,
Because her dearest Lord was, alas! no more.