SAVIOUR! When in the dust to thee
Low we bow the adoring knee,
When, repentant, to the skies
Scarce we lift our streaming eyes;
O! by all the pains and woe,
Suffered once for man below,
Bending from thy throne on high,
Hear our solemn litany!
By thy helpless infant years,
By thy life of wants and tears,
By thy days of sore distress,
In the savage wilderness;
By the dread permitted hour
Of th' insulting tempter's power-
Turn, O turn a pitying eye,
Hear our solemn litany!
By the sacred griefs that wept
O'er the grave where Lazarus slept
By the boding tears that flowed
Over Salem's loved abode
By the anguished tear that told,
Treachery lurked within thy fold-
From thy seat above the sky,
Hear our solemn litany!
By thine hour of dire despair,
By thine agony of prayer,
By the cross, the nail, the thorn,
Piercing spear, and torturing scorn,
By the gloom that veiled the skies,
O'er the dreadful sacrifice,
Listen to our humble cry,
Hear our solemn litany!
By the deep expiring groan,
By the sad sepulchral tone,
By the vault whose dark abode
Held in vain the rising God;
O! from earth to heaven restored,
Mighty re-ascended Lord,
Listen, listen to the cry,
Of our solemn litany!
BLEST land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.
Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear
Thy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear;
Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown.
Beyond are Bethulia s mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee!
Hark, a sound in the valley: where, swollen and strong, Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along ;
Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain,
And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.
There, down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,
And Naphtali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame,
And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on,
For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son'
There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang
To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang,
When the princess of Issachar stood by her side,
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.
Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,
With the mountains around and the valleys between ;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The song of the angels rose sweet in the air.
And Bethany's palm trees in beauty still throw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;
But where are the sisters who hastened to greet
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet?
I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod:
I stand where they stood with the chosen of God-
Where His blessings were heard and His lessons were taught,
Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.
O, here with his flock the sad Wanderer came-
These hills he toiled over in grief, are the same—
The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow,
And the same airs are blowing which breathed on his brow.
And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,
But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet;
For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone,
And the holy Shekinah is dark where it shone.
But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode.
Of humanity clothed in the brightness of God?
Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim,
It could gaze, even now, on the
presence of Him!
Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when,
In love and in meekness, He moved among men ;
And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea, In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!
And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor
my eyes see the cross which He bowed Him to bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer.
Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near
To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of Thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.
O, the outward hath gone! — but, in glory and power,
The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same!
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