It is not that His soul
   Is wandering sadly on,
In thought how soon at death’s dark goal
   Their course will all be run,
Who now are shouting round
   Hosanna to their chief;
No thought like this in Him is found,
   This were a Conquerer’s grief.

Or doth He feel the Cross
   Already in His heart,
The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss? 
   Feel e’en His God depart? 
No:  though He knew full well
   The grief that then shall be —
The grief that angels cannot tell —
   Our God in agony.

It is not thus He mourns;
   Such might be martyr’s tears,
When his last lingering look he turns
   On human hopes and fears;
But hero ne’er or saint
   The secret load might know,
With which His spirit waxeth faint;
   His is a Saviour’s woe.

“If thou had’st known, e’en thou,
   At least in this thy day,
The message of thy peace! but now
   ’Tis passed for aye away: 
Now foes shall trench thee round,
   And lay thee even with earth,
And dash thy children to the ground,
   Thy glory and thy mirth.”

And doth the Saviour weep
   Over His people’s sin,
Because we will not let Him keep
   The souls He died to win? 
Ye hearts, that love the Lord,
   If at this, sight ye burn,
See that in thought, in deed, in word,
   Ye hate what made Him mourn.

ELEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY

Is it a time to receive money, and to receive garments, and oliveyards, and vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and maidservants? 2 Kings v. 26.

Is this a time to plant and build,
Add house to house, and field to field,
When round our walls the battle lowers,
When mines are hid beneath our towers,
And watchful foes are stealing round
To search and spoil the holy ground?

Is this a time for moonlight dreams
Of love and home by mazy streams,
For Fancy with her shadowy toys,
Aerial hopes and pensive joys,
While souls are wandering far and wide,
And curses swarm on every side?

No—­rather steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr’s sternest part,
To watch, with firm unshrinking eye,
Thy darling visions as thy die,
Till all bright hopes, and hues of day,
Have faded into twilight gray.

Yes—­let them pass without a sigh,
And if the world seem dull and dry,
If long and sad thy lonely hours,
And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers,
Bethink thee what thou art and where,
A sinner in a life of care.

The fire of God is soon to fall
(Thou know’st it) on this earthly ball;
Full many a soul, the price of blood,
Marked by th’ Almighty’s hand for good,
To utter death that hour shall sweep —
And will the saints in Heaven dare weep?

Then in His wrath shall god uproot
The trees He set, for lack of fruit,
And drown in rude tempestuous blaze
The towers His hand had deigned to raise;
In silence, ere that storm begin,
Count o’er His mercies and thy sin.