The “living corn of wheat” must die:—
God’s Christ in sinner’s grave must lie—
Ere from the dust can spring again
The glorious head of living grain:
The church in union with the Head,
The risen First-fruits from the dead.
Stands full in view that ghastly hour
Of Satan’s rage and darkness’ power—
Hour of the scourge, the cross, the scorn;
Hour of God’s wrath, for sinners borne;
Hour such as never yet was known,
Save by the Son of God alone.
Its darkling gloom His eye surveys
With sweeping, penetrating gaze;
Takes in, with comprehensive power,
The awful import of that hour,
When sin’s atonement must be made,
And sinner’s ransom fully paid.
Troubled His soul—as well it may,
At prospect of so dread a day;
He counts the cost—Ah! none but He
Could reckon what the cost must be: —
His blood pour’d out, His life laid down,
God’s curse endured, God’s wrath, God’s frown.
“What shall I say?” His soul demands,
“Shall I lift up to heav’n my hands?
Shall I before the tempest cower?
Say, ‘Father, save me from this hour’?
Far be the thought,—for this I came,
Nay,’ Father, glorify Thy name.’”
“Thine outraged honor’s righteous due,
Sin’s insult, and its foulness, too;
And man’s rebellion ‘gainst Thy throne,
Demand a victim to atone;
Else must the guilty rebels die—
That willing Victim, here am I.”
“The willing Victim, lo! I come
To do Thy will, to bear sin’s doom;
And worst of agonies, to be
Forsaken, oh! my God, by Thee,
But welcome anguish, cross, and shame,
So ‘Father glorify Thy name!’
Lisbon.