“My head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night."
The following lines are supposed to be the meditation of one just fresh from dwelling on the sorrows of Christ in the garden, as described in the Gospels. Hence the reader is to go back, as it were, to the night of his agony there, and to realize the whole scene as actually passing before him.
AT dead of night, in you deep olive shade,
What suppliant kneels?—what child of sorrow
there,
On the cold dewy earth, with grief o'erweigh'd,
Breathes out his soul in agonizing prayer?
Alas that heart will break-see, drops like gore
Bedew his brow at every opening pore.
Oh is it thou, the Holy One of God?
Thine hour of woe is near, th' appointed hour,
When heaven and hell shall grasp th' avenging
rod,
And each at once concentrate all its power
To strike the blow:—Let naught unhallow'd dare
Profane this spot, for Christ is sorrowing there.
Yes, thou canst suffer, Lord; though all divine,
Thou art human too, and thou dolt crave
Some heart to mingle and to feel with thine;
But thou hast none: no soothing hand to lave
Thine aching brow; none, none, to bear a part
In the deep suff'rings of thy throbbing heart.
Where, where is he that but an hour ago,
Pillow'd his head upon his Savior's breast,
Thy loved disciple? in this night of woe,
Doth he too sleep? will he, with all the rest,
Forsake thee now?-alas and didst thou deign
To ask his sympathy, yet ask in vain?
Yet thou art heard-on his eternal Son,
From the full fountain of the Father’s love,
Some drops of pity fall: thy prayer hath won
A blessed angel from the throne above,
To comfort thee; to pluck the cruel dart
For a brief moment from thy suffering heart.
There rest awhile; there, Lord, in thought
survey
The joyous issue of the fearful strife
That waits thee now—thine own eternal sway
O'er pardon'd myriads; thou thyself the life
And light of all-such hopes have surely
power
To nerve and arm thee for thy dying hour.
Thy kingdom, Lord, will come-thy glory shine
Through heav'n and earth: those slumb'ring
weak ones there,
Fill'd with the energy of love divine,
Shall tell of thee; of thee at last declare
How thou hast suffer'd, thou incarnate God!
Then dying, follow where thy steps have trod.
Yes, they will die; thy pierced and bleeding
brow
Shall spend for them not one pure drop in
vain—
'Twill cancel all-and, they who slight thee now,
Shall wake to feel thy single arm sustain
Their souls through all: to taste the soothing
power,
The soft sweet virtue of this blessed hour.
O could we feel it too!-but, Lord! we sleep,
While thou art sorrowing through these midnight
hours:
Ah I while for us thy blessed eyelids keep
Their weary vigils, sin, alas! devours
The life of love; and half unmoved we see
That thou art there, but will not watch with thee.
Oh for one look, one quick'ning glance of thine,
To break the spell, the lethargy of sin;
E'en such a thrilling ray of love divine
As you poor sleepers yet shall feel within!
Come, Savior! come-our heartless slumber
break,
We sleep, alas I like them—like them may we
awake!