"Where is the lamb, the sacrifice,
Spotless and pure and meek,
Upon whose unresisting head,
Earth's surging guilt may meet?”
The olden days of sacrifice
Cry from the Druid stones,
Though maidens' warm young lifeblood flows:
"Nothing of this atones!”
The Ganges bears the soft babe-limbs
Out on her watery breast;
But India's million voices wail,
"Not yet, not yet our rest!”
"Where is the lamb?" all earth has cried;
But aye, from heaven alone
Comes answer sweet. It falls, alas,
Too oft on hearts of stone.
Ah, soul, dost recognize "the Lamb"—
Jesus, the Son of God,
The victor-victim, crowned above,
Crushed by the earth He trod?
"He framed the world"; yet in this world
As silent Lamb was led
To death and torture; all our guilt
Laid on His drooping head.
"Behold the Lamb!" Oh, tired heart,
Weary of guilt and sin,
Rest on His loving, longing heart,
Broken to take thee in.
Lay thy poor head upon His feet,
Where were the nail-wounds; thine!
And whisper in faith-ecstasy:
"The Lamb of God is mine.”