The book of sacred song . to Thee, when earth and heaven have gone,And everlasting time his course hath run. Williams : From the Latin. I LAY IT DOWN OF MYSELF. E wept by Lazarus grave—how will HebearThis bed of anguish ? and His pale, weakIs worn with many a watch [form Of sorrow and unrest. MODERN : ANONYMOUS. 295 Oh ! fill the bowl! benumb his aching senseWith medicined sleep.—Oh! awful in Thy woe ! The parched thirst of death Is on Thee, and Thou triest The slumberous potion bland, and wilt not drink!Not sullen nor in scorn, like haughty man With suicidal hand Putting His solace by: But as

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The book of sacred song . to Thee, when earth and heaven have gone, And everlasting time his course hath run. Williams : From the Latin. I LAY IT DOWN OF MYSELF. E wept by Lazarus grave—how will HebearThis bed of anguish ? and His pale, weakIs worn with many a watch [form Of sorrow and unrest. MODERN : ANONYMOUS. 295 Oh ! fill the bowl! benumb his aching senseWith medicined sleep.—Oh! awful in Thy woe ! The parched thirst of death Is on Thee, and Thou triest The slumberous potion bland, and wilt not drink!Not sullen nor in scorn, like haughty man With suicidal hand Putting His solace by: But as at first, thine all-pervading lookSaw from Thy Fathers bosom to the abyss, Measuring in calm presage The infinite descent;— So to the end, though now of mortal pangsMade heir, and emptied of Thy glory awhile, With unaverted eye Thou meetest all the storm. From the Latin. GETHSEMANE. HO hath believed our report ? to whomHath Thine arm been reveaPd, Incar-nate Lord ?Reason confounded stands, And Faith silent and mute.. 2g6 THE BOOK OF SACRED SONG. O holy Lamb, slain ere the world was made, And hast Thou from Thy Fathers bosom come, Thyself the sacrifice Dimly shadowd of old ! But why thus laid upon the cold dank ground, Oh, why that look of fearful agony, While on Thy wan worn frameThy blood stands, drop by drop ? It is the mighty anguish of Thy soul, And horror at the weight of others crimes, To bear Thy Fathers wrath, And terrors of the lost. It is the proffered cup Thy soul affrights:Ah ! if it be that Thou drink not the whole, We everlastingly Must drink, and suck the dregs ! But love doth master terrors agony : Love strong in death, and His blest Fathers will; Calmly He yields Himself To darkness and to death. And now unto the scourge, the twined thorn, The rough rude mockery, and torturing tree, A lamb-like victim meek, He bows His holy head.