IT IS FINISHED.

Boast not, Death! thy transient prey;
Watchers! vain your nightly tread;
"Shining ones" are there who wait
Till their Lord shall burst his prison,
To ascend in glorious state :—

"IT IS FINISHED!"

CHRIST HATH RISEN.

Bernard Barton.

183

Jesus, our Love. is Crucified.

His mother can not reach his face ;
She stands in helplessness beside,
Her heart is martyred with her Son's,―
Jesus, our love, is crucified!

What was thy crime, my dearest Lord?

By earth, by heaven, thou hast been tried,
And guilty found of too much love;-
Jesus, our love, is crucified!

Found guilty of excess of love,

It was thine own sweet will that tied Thee tighter far than helpless nails ;— Jesus, our love, is crucified!

O come, and mourn with me awhile;
See, Mary calls us to her side;
O come, and let us mourn with her ;-
Jesus, our love, is crucified!

Have we no tears to shed for him,

While soldiers scoff and Jews deride?

Ah, look, how patiently he hangs,—

Jesus, our love, is crucified!

Faber.

He Saved Others.

WHEN Scorn and hate, and bitter, envious pride
Hurled all their darts against the crucified,
Found they no fault but this in Him so tried?
"He saved others!"

Those hands, thousands their healing touches knew;
On withered limbs they fell like heavenly dew;
The dead have felt them, and have lived anew:

"He saved others!"

The blood is dropping slowly from them now;

Thou canʼst not raise them from thy thorn-crowned brow, Nor on them thy parched lips and forehead bow :

"He saved others!"

That voice from out their graves the dead had stirred;
Crushed, outcast hearts grew joyful as they heard;
For every woe it had a healing word:

"He saved others!"

For all thou hadst deep tones of sympathy:
Hast thou no word for this thine agony?
Thou pitied'st all; doth no man pity thee?

"He saved others!"

So many fettered hearts thy touch hath freed,

Physician! and thy wounds unstaunched must bleed;
Hast thou no balm for this thy sorest need?

"He saved others!"

Lord! and one sign from thee could rend the sky;
One word from thee, and low those mockers lie;
Thou mak'st no movement, utterest no cry,

And savest us!

Hymn to Christ on the Erass.

HAIL! thou head, so bruised and wounded
With the crown of thorns surrounded,
Smitten with the mocking reed,

Wounds, which may not cease to bleed,

Trickling faint and slow;

Hail! from whose most blessed brow
None can wipe the blood-drops now;
All the flower of life has fled,

Mortal paleness there instead ;

Thou, before whose presence dread,
Angels trembling bow.

All thy vigor and thy life

Fading in this bitter strife;

Death his stamp on Thee has set,

Hollow and emaciate,

Faint and drooping there;

Thou this agony and scorn

Hast for me, a sinner, borne:

Me, unworthy, all for me!

With those signs of love on thee,

Glorious face, appear!