| |
| IT is the same infrequent star,— | |
| The all-mysterious light, | |
| That like a watcher, gazing on | |
| The changes of the night, | |
| Toward the hill of Bethlehem took | 5 |
| Its solitary flight. | |
| |
| It is the same infrequent star; | |
| Its sameness startleth me, | |
| Although the disk is red as blood, | |
| And downward silently | 10 |
| It looketh on another hill,— | |
| The hill of Calvary! | |
| |
| Nor noon, nor night; for to the west | |
| The heavy sun doth glow; | |
| And, like a ship, the lazy mist | 15 |
| Is sailing on below,— | |
| Between the broad sun and the earth | |
| It tacketh to and fro. | |
| |
| There is no living wind astir; | |
| The bat’s unholy wing | 20 |
| Threads through the noiseless olive trees, | |
| Like some unquiet thing | |
| Which playeth in the darkness, when | |
| The leaves are whispering. | |
| |
| Mount Calvary! Mount Calvary! | 25 |
| All sorrowfully still, | |
| That mournful tread, it rends the heart | |
| With an unwelcome thrill,— | |
| The mournful tread of them that crowd | |
| Thy melancholy hill! | 30 |
| |
| There is a cross,—not one alone: | |
| ’T is even three I count, | |
| Like columns on the mossy marge | |
| Of some old Grecian fount,— | |
| So pale they stand, so drearily, | 35 |
| On that mysterious Mount. | |
| |
| Behold, O Israel! behold, | |
| It is no human One | |
| That ye have dared to crucify. | |
| What evil hath he done? | 40 |
| It is your King, O Israel! | |
| The God-begotten Son! | |
| |
| A wreath of thorns, a wreath of thorns! | |
| Why have ye crowned him so? | |
| That brow is bathed in agony,— | 45 |
| ’T is veiled in every woe: | |
| Ye saw not the immortal trace | |
| Of Deity below. | |
| |
| It is the foremost of the Three! | |
| Resignedly they fall, | 50 |
| Those deathlike drooping features, | |
| Unbending, blighted all: | |
| The Man of Sorrows,—how he bears | |
| The agonizing thrall! | |
| |
| ’T is fixed on thee, O Israel! | 55 |
| His gaze!—how strange to brook; | |
| But that there ’s mercy blended deep | |
| In each reproachful look, | |
| ’T would search thee, till the very heart | |
| Its withered home forsook. | 60 |
| |
| To God! to God! how eloquent | |
| The cry, as if it grew, | |
| By those cold lips unuttered, yet | |
| All heartfelt rising through,— | |
| “Father in heaven! forgive them, for | 65 |
| They know not what they do!“ | |
| |
