There is a spot within this sacred dale
   That felt Thee kneeling—­touched Thy prostrate brow: 
One Angel knows it.  O might prayer avail
   To win that knowledge! sure each holy vow
Less quickly from the unstable soul would fade,
Offered where Christ in agony was laid.

Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood
   That from His aching brow by moonlight fell,
Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood,
   Till they had framed within a guardian spell
To chase repining fancies, as they rise,
Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.

So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams; —
   Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o’erflow,
Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams
   From thy dear name, where in His page of woe
It shines, a pale kind star in winter’s sky? 
Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.

TUESDAY BEFORE EASTER

They gave Him to drink wine mingled with myrrh:  but He received in not.  St. Mark xv. 23.

“Fill high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour
The dews oblivious:  for the Cross is sharp,
   The Cross is sharp, and He
   Is tenderer than a lamb.

“He wept by Lazarus’ grave—­how will He bear
This bed of anguish? and His pale weak form
   Is worn with many a watch
   Of sorrow and unrest.

“His sweat last night was as great drops of blood,
And the sad burthen pressed Him so to earth,
   The very torturers paused
   To help Him on His way.

“Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense
With medicined sleep.”—­O awful in Thy woe! 
   The parching thirst of death
   Is on Thee, and Thou triest

The slumb’rous potion bland, and wilt not drink: 
Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man
   With suicidal hand
   Putting his solace by: 

But as at first Thine all-pervading look
Saw from Thy Father’s bosom to the abyss
   Measuring in calm presage
   The infinite descent;

So to the end, though now of mortal pangs
Made heir, and emptied of Thy glory, awhile,
   With unaverted eye
   Thou meetest all the storm.

Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all;
And rather wouldst Thou wreathe with strong pain,
   Than overcloud Thy soul,
   So clear in agony,

Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time
O most entire and perfect sacrifice,
   Renewed in every pulse
   That on the tedious Cross

Told the long hours of death, as, one by one,
The life-strings of that tender heart gave way;
   E’en sinners, taught by Thee,
   Look Sorrow in the face,

And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiled
By false kind solaces, and spells of earth:-
   And yet not all unsoothed;
   For when was Joy so dear,

As the deep calm that breathed, “Father, forgive,”
Or, “Be with Me in Paradise to-day?”
   And, though the strife be sore,
   Yet in His parting breath