Classic Poem

It was an evening in the Holy Land,
When Jesus gathered his disciples dear:
The Jews' Passover feast was nigh at hand,
And they were met their Master's words to hear.
By his own hand the faithful few were fed;
They drank the cup he gave them in that hour,
Nor saw the clouds that gathered round his head,
Nor dreamed for them he'd bow to Caesar's power.

Though on the hills around Jerusalem
He oft had wandered with the chosen few,
And taught the holy prophecies to them
Who ne'er before their deepest meaning knew,
They dreamed not of his death, but would have crowned
The Meek and Lowly as a conquering King:
How could they bear to have their Master bound?
How know he must o'ercome through suffering?

Upon his breast his best-loved follower leaned,
While round him there Christ's arms in love were thrown:
How from such holy joy could John be weaned?
How walk the paths of earth again alone?
Yet ere the morning must that Master sigh
Beneath the shades of fair Gethsemane,
And while angelic ministers are nigh,
Must bear, O sinner, sorrow's weight for thee!

The supper o'er, and Judas far away,
His cheering words of love our Saviour spake,
Then prayed for all who near his cross should stay,
Then bade the echoes with a hymn awake:
Thus prayer and music blended in that hour,
With pathos, melody, and love divine,
Twin influences that o'er the soul have power
A holy wreath around the heart to twine.

O Saviour blest! whene'er I bend the knee,
Or sing the songs of Zion to thy praise,
I'll think, in love and faith, how thou for me
Once trod, in holy grief, earth's weary ways.
And oh! as I shall at thy table bow,
And taste the bread and wine with grateful heart,
How oft my tears must fall that such as thou
Must die to win me to the better part!