A gallery of famous English and American poets . OD FRIDAY. 249 By wakeful sliepherds Thou art found,Abiding in the through the wintry heaven and chill night air,In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer. 0 faint not yc for fear— What though your wandering sheep,Reckless of what they see and hear,Lie lost in wilful sleep?High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoyStill greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy. Think on th eternal homeThe Saviour left for you ;Think on the Lord most holy, comeTo dwell with hearts untrue :So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways,And in the d
A gallery of famous English and American poets . OD FRIDAY. 249 By wakeful sliepherds Thou art found,Abiding in the through the wintry heaven and chill night air,In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer. 0 faint not yc for fear— What though your wandering sheep,Reckless of what they see and hear,Lie lost in wilful sleep?High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoyStill greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy. Think on th eternal homeThe Saviour left for you ;Think on the Lord most holy, comeTo dwell with hearts untrue :So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways,And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise. GOOD FRIDAY. Is it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawned on sinful earthShould touch the heart with softer powerFor comfort, than an Angels mirth?That to the Cross the mourners eye should turnSooner than where the stars of Christmas burn? Sooner than where the Easter sunShines glorious on yon open grave, 03 250 KEBLE. And to and fro the tidings run, Who died to heal, is risen to save? j|||iBiiH. Sooner than where upon the Saviours friendsThe very Comforter in Hght and love descends? Yet so it is: for duly there The bitter herbs of earth are set, GOOD FRIDAY. 251 Till tempered by the Saviours prayer,And with the Saviours hfe-blood wot,They turn to sweetness, and drop holy as imprisoned martyrs death-bed calm. All turn to sweet—but most of allThat bitterest to the hp of pride,When hopes presumptuous fade and fall,Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried,Or Love, the flower that closes up for fearWhen rude and selfish spirits breathe too near. Then hke a long-forgotten strain Comes sweeping oer the heart forlornWhat sunshine hours had taught in vainOf Jesus suffering shame and scorn,As in all lowly hearts He suffers still,While we triumphant ride and have the world at will. His pierced hands in vain would hideHis face from rude reproachful gaze,His ears are open to abide The wildest storm the tongue can raise,He who with on
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksu, booksubjectenglishpoetry
