And can I then such scenes behold,
And still be careless, still be cold?
Can I, with air of sinful pride,
Cast such unbounded love aside?
My soul, oh, can it, can it be?
Has Jesus died in vain for thee?
Oh, no! the crimson streams that glide
From Calvary’s deeply blood-stained side,
Invite my soul, so stained with sin,
To wash away its guilt therein;
And in those precious drops I see
Christ has not died in vain for me!
The Saviour pleads, in thrilling tone,
Before his mighty Father’s throne,
That for his sake my guilty name
Within the book of life may claim
A place. He smiles; and now I see
Christ does not plead in vain for me!
Amazing love! what tongue can tell
The wondrous depths that in thee dwell?
What angel’s mind can e’er explore
The riches of thy boundless store?
Oh, matchless love beyond degree,—
Christ bled, he died, and pleads for me!
Arrows dipped in poison flew
From the fatal bow;
And they pierced my bosom through,
And they laid me low.
Every nerve to anguish strung,
In distress I cried:
And the waste around me rung,
But no voice replied.
“Cruel was the hand,” I said,
“That could draw the bow:
Curses rest upon the head
Of my heartless foe!”
Turning straightway at the sound,
In the tangled wood,
Pale, and bearing many a wound,
There a stranger stood.
Mournfully on me he gazed,
Not a word he said:
But one hand the stranger raised,
And I saw it bled.
Blood was flowing from his side
And his thorn-pierced brow;
“Who has wounded thee?” I cried,
And he answered, “Thou!”
Then I knew the Stranger well,
And with sobs and tears
Prostrate at his feet I fell,
But he soothed my fears.
“Thou hast wounded me, but live,—
And my blessing take:
Henceforth wilt thou not forgive
Freely for my sake?”
Resting in his fond embrace,
Eased of every woe,—
Then I said, with smiling face,
“Jesus, bless my foe!”
The storm was loud; a murky cloud
O’erhung the midnight sky,
And rude the blast that wildly passed
A lonely orphan by;
But ruder still the bitter thrill
Of woe that rent his heart;
Darker his fears, sadder the tears
That evermore would start.
“Bleak is the storm, and on my form
The winds in fury beat;
A racking pain, torments my brain,
And sore these weary feet;
No ray of light illumes the night,
And here, alas! I roam,
Where tempests howl and wild beasts growl;
Oh, that I had a home!
“Full many a day has rolled away
Since I have laid me down,
To cease to weep, and fall asleep,
Save on the cold, damp ground;
And many more may pass me o’er
Ere I may cease to roam;
One year ago it was not so,—
For then I had a home!
