Sin hardens all the heart, with ice encrusting,
And narrowing its current evermore;
Therefore, O Saviour, loving, pitying trusting,
Thy heart, no ice of sin e'er crusted o'er,
Was tenderer to feel each pang that tried Thee
Than any heart which ever broke or bled;
The timid love that followed yet denied Thee,
The selfish fear that kept far off, or fled.
*****
But/sin must ever weaken while it hardens,—
Enfeebling to endure, or act, or dare;
Till nothing save the balm of heavenly pardons
Can nerve the heart again to do or bear.
Then must Thy heart be stronger far to suffer
Than any sinful heart that ever beat;
And if Thy path than any path be rougher,
Yet hast Thou tenfold strength its woes to meet.
What tide of grief, then, Mightiest! o'er Thee rushes,
Thus tasking e'en Thy patience and Thy trust?
What woe beyond all woe Thy spirit crushes,
Bowing Thee, sinless, spotless, to the dust?
Martyrs for Thee have gone to meet their anguish,
Singing glad psalms e'en with their dying breath;
Not all their tortures causing once to languish
The hope that led them forth for Thee to death.
Thy Stephen's face shone like a happy angel's,
Uplifted, 'midst the stones, towards Thy skies,
Beaming from radiant brows Thine own evangels,
And glowing with the welcome in Thine eyes.
Yet Thou, Lord, liftest not Thy face to heaven,
But bowest prostrate on the dewy sod;
Thy soul exceeding sorrowful, with death-pangs riven,
Thy sweat of anguish as great drops of blood.
What storm is thiSin which Thou all but sinkest,
Whose arm has borne so many through the flood?
What bitter cup is this from which Thou shrinkest,
Strength of all martyrs, patient Lamb of God?
The sin of all the world, whose throne Thou claimest,
Hadst made so fair, so fallen, loved and sought;
The sin of all Thine own, to whom Thou camest,—
Thou camest, and Thine own received Thee not;
The sin of all the saved, that, dying, bless'd Thee,
Who from the sting of death hadst set them free;
The sin of all Thy martyrs, who confess'd Thee,
And died rejoicing that they went to Thee;—
This is the weight of agony unspoken
Which Thee, O Highest, thus so low hath laid!
The curse of all the law mankind had broken,
The sin of all the world which Thou hadst made.
Earth's serried woe and crime in one compressing,
Thou buriest all within Thy single breast;
And changest thus our every curse to blessing,
Giving us life through death—in labour rest.
And narrowing its current evermore;
Therefore, O Saviour, loving, pitying trusting,
Thy heart, no ice of sin e'er crusted o'er,
Was tenderer to feel each pang that tried Thee
Than any heart which ever broke or bled;
The timid love that followed yet denied Thee,
The selfish fear that kept far off, or fled.
*****
But/sin must ever weaken while it hardens,—
Enfeebling to endure, or act, or dare;
Till nothing save the balm of heavenly pardons
Can nerve the heart again to do or bear.
Then must Thy heart be stronger far to suffer
Than any sinful heart that ever beat;
And if Thy path than any path be rougher,
Yet hast Thou tenfold strength its woes to meet.
What tide of grief, then, Mightiest! o'er Thee rushes,
Thus tasking e'en Thy patience and Thy trust?
What woe beyond all woe Thy spirit crushes,
Bowing Thee, sinless, spotless, to the dust?
Martyrs for Thee have gone to meet their anguish,
Singing glad psalms e'en with their dying breath;
Not all their tortures causing once to languish
The hope that led them forth for Thee to death.
Thy Stephen's face shone like a happy angel's,
Uplifted, 'midst the stones, towards Thy skies,
Beaming from radiant brows Thine own evangels,
And glowing with the welcome in Thine eyes.
Yet Thou, Lord, liftest not Thy face to heaven,
But bowest prostrate on the dewy sod;
Thy soul exceeding sorrowful, with death-pangs riven,
Thy sweat of anguish as great drops of blood.
What storm is thiSin which Thou all but sinkest,
Whose arm has borne so many through the flood?
What bitter cup is this from which Thou shrinkest,
Strength of all martyrs, patient Lamb of God?
The sin of all the world, whose throne Thou claimest,
Hadst made so fair, so fallen, loved and sought;
The sin of all Thine own, to whom Thou camest,—
Thou camest, and Thine own received Thee not;
The sin of all the saved, that, dying, bless'd Thee,
Who from the sting of death hadst set them free;
The sin of all Thy martyrs, who confess'd Thee,
And died rejoicing that they went to Thee;—
This is the weight of agony unspoken
Which Thee, O Highest, thus so low hath laid!
The curse of all the law mankind had broken,
The sin of all the world which Thou hadst made.
Earth's serried woe and crime in one compressing,
Thou buriest all within Thy single breast;
And changest thus our every curse to blessing,
Giving us life through death—in labour rest.