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Say what is Babylon, low sunk in earth?
O hasty traveller thro' the vale of tears,
130 Come to my heart, thou sovereign hope of Heaven, Reign o'er my actions and my wandering thoughts; My bed of death illuminate ; and lead
A son of sorrow to his father's home.
Upon a cross, behold the king of glory,
The wrath of God here centres on the head Of his anointed son. The eyes of heaven 150 Behold in wonder this triumphant scene. Bright seraphs burning round Jehovah's throne, Strike their full harps and chant redeeming grace.
Dark rose the hill where stood the Saviour's cross The scene of love; and blackest deed of hell. Where erst the father of the faithful, bound
His son (so 'tis believ'd) by God's command*
Surrounding armies aw'd the multitude, And Rome appear'd in her assembled hosts. Dim by the Cross stalk'd Cruelty and Rage, 160 And pierc'd the Saviour's bosom with their sting. Fell mockery breath'd its most reproachful taunts, And shouts of exultation rent the air,
Serene, conspicuous hung the dying God. His sacred head is pierc'd with horrid thorns. His arms are nail'd to the accursed tree. His bosom opened by a Soldier's spear. No curse, or threatening pass his placid lips; He prays for blessings on the murderer's head. Father have mercy! on my thoughtless foes, 170 Have mercy God! they know not what they do.
'Tis finishido. cries the Saviour, while he dies, And yields his spirit to his Father's hands.
* The mountain - upon which Abraham was about to sacrifice his son Isaac, is supposed by some, and upon no improbable grounds, to have been the same mountain on which Christ suffered on his cross.
Nature beheld the awful scene with dread.
The mighty work of Christ is now perform’d. A world is ransom'd from the depths of woe. Justice has sheath'd the dreadful sword of wrath; And God is reconcil'd with sinful man. The weary traveller now rests in peace; The Saviour rests lock'd in the arms of Death: His pulse has ceas’d to beat: the clotted gore.
Hang's thick and cold upon his face and breast. · Lift up your heads ye everlasting doors, 190 And let the king of Glory enter in!
The Saviour rests; the tomb receives his prey With chilling arms. The voice of mockery,
The taunt of malice, and the shout of triumph Strike on his ear no more. That eye which look'd