158

THE CROWN OF THORNS.

Then strike our rocky souls, O Lord
Amid life's desert place;

Yet may their harden'd depths afford

The waters of thy grace.

Low in the dust we kneel and pray,

O! sanctify our tears;

Till they wash every stain away

From past and guilty years.

Miss Landon.

The Highway to Mount Ealuarie.

REPAIR to Pilat's hall,

Which place, when thou hast found,
Then shall thou see a pillar stand,

To which thy Lord was bound.

'Tis easie to be known

To anie Christian eye;

The bloudie whips doe point it out
From all that stand thereby.

By it there lies a robe

Of purple, and a reed

Which Pilat's servants us'd t' abuse

In sinne's deriding deed;

When they pronounced "All haile!
God save thee!" with a breath,

And by the same cride presently,
"Let Christ be done to death."

His person had in scorne,

His doctrine made a iest,

Their mockeries were a martirdome;

No wrongs but him opprest.

160

THE HIGHWAY TO MOUNT CALUARIE.

What courage less than his

Would have endured like shame,

But would with griefs of such contempt
Have dide t' indure the same!

A little from that place,

Upon the left hand side,
There is a curious portlie dore,
Right beautifull and wide.

Leave that in anie wise,

Forbid thy foot goe thether;
For out thereat did Judas goe-
Despaire and he together.

But to the right hand turn,

Where is a narrow gate;

Forth which St. Peter went to weepe
His poor distrest estate.

Doe immitate the like,

Goe out at sorrowe's dore;
Weepe bitterly as he did weepe,
That wept to sinne no more.

Keep wide of Cayphus' house,

Though courtous thoughts infence:

There bribery haunts, despare was hatcht;
False Judas came from thence.

THE HIGHWAY TO MOUNT CALUARIE. 161

But go on forward still,

Where Pilat's pallace stands;

There, where he first did false condemne,

There washed his guiltie hands,

Confessed he found no cause,
And yet condemned to die,
Fearing an earthly Ceaser more
Than God that rules on hie.

By this direction then

The way is vnderstood;

No porch, no dore, nor hal to passe,
Vnsprinkled with Christ's blood.

So shall no errour put

Misguiding steppes betweene; For every drop sweet Jesus shed Is freshly to be seene.

A crowne of piercing thornes

There lies imbru'd in gore;
The garland that thy Sauiour's head
For thy offences wore.

Which, when thou shalt behold,

Thinke what his loue hath binne,

Whose head was loaden with those briars "T vnlade thee of thy sinne.

162

THE HIGHWAY TO MOUNT CALUARIE.

Whose sacred flesh was torne,

Whose holie skinne was rent;

Whose tortures and extreamest paines

Thy pains in hell preuent.

As God from Babilon

Did turne, when they, past cure,

Refused help whome he would heale,
Denying health t' indure:

So from Hierusalem

The soule's Phisition goes,

When they forsook His sauing health
And vowed themselves his foes.

Goe with Him, happy soule,

From that forsaken towne,
Vpon whose wals lies not a stone
But ruin must throw downe.

Follow his feet that goes

For to redeeme thy losse,

And carries alle our sinnes with him

To cansel on His Crosse.

Behold what multitudes

Doe guard thy God about,

Who, bleeding, beares his dying tree

Amidst the Jewish rout!