The mount whereon my Saviour stood,
And o’er the city wept—
Where fell his wo-wrung drops of blood,
While his disciples slept—
There may I go, yet not to sleep
Till Jesus be betrayed;
But, as he went, to pray and weep
O’er sufferings sin hath made.
And to the solemn, shuddering mount,
Where Christ received the cup
Of death, to offer us a fount
Of life, must I go up.
And I must look upon his wo,
On that empurpled tree,
To learn how vast a debt I owe,
By what he paid for me.
Thence to the mount of Galilee
May I the way pursue,
With joy my risen Lord to see,
Ere he ascends from view.
For lo! the heavens their gates unfold
To take their coming King:
His angels harp on strings of gold,
And “Hallelujah!” sing.
Now on Mount Zion may I seek
My shield—my strong, high tower;
And thence, though here so dark and weak,
Be clothed with light and power.
Then at that holy mountain’s top,
My soul, no more to roam,
Unfurl thy wings—thine ashes drop;
And gain thy glorious home.
[THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING.]
A solemn night is o’er Jerusalem;
Nature astonished, shrouds herself in gloom;
For he, who was the babe of Bethlehem,
Is now a victim slain, and in the tomb!
The blood, which started with the agony
That in the garden forced his swelling veins,
In crimson streams has poured on Calvary;
A rocky cavern holds his pale remains.
He walked with men, serene in holiness,
The meek, the merciful, through taunts and strife;
The front of pride he met with lowliness,
And bowed to death to lift his foes to life.