THOUGHTS ON GOOD FRIDAY:
Occasioned by seeing two “Sinkers” dragged out of a Coal Pit; one of them killed, the other dreadfully wounded. At a short distance, a busy crowd were preparing their tents and posts for the approaching races, on Easter Monday and Tuesday. On mentioning the fatal occurrence, and naming the day, a bystander exclaimed, “O, Good Friday is nought!”
The morning sun shone dim, as if in pain,
To see that day by man so soon despised.
The feather’d choirs did heedless man reprove,
Who had more cause than they, with early song
To greet the morn, on which their Saviour bled.
Alas! that man should e’er forget his love!
Down, down the pit, the cheerful sinkers went,
Nor grief, nor fear through all the gloom appear’d;
Though at the bottom deep, grim death sat shrouded
In horrid features, measuring their minutes!
Foul was the air, and bad;—they saw him not,
Nor dream’d he was so near, nor held dispute,
On which the lot might fall, to be his victim:—
When suddenly, through wanton carelessness,
Or the just judgment of an angry God,
The kibble kick’d, brim full of splinter’d rock!
Down fell at once his ponderous instrument,
Full thirty fathom, whizzing as it went!
Beneath its heavy crash a victim fell,
And groan’d, nor ceas’d, till he had groan’d his last.
Then from behind the scene the monster stept,
And with his bony fingers hurl’d his dart:
Its point another touch’d, but not so deep.
Forth from the pit I saw the sufferers dragg’d,
I heard deep groans, and saw their mangled flesh.
The former then with grief was quick interr’d,
The other a poor halting cripple lives.
Where’s now the man that says “Good Friday’s nought?”
With accidents like this, God’s swift judgments,
I could, if ’twere requested, fill these sheets;
But to the man who thinks, and judges right,
This may suffice. And is Good Friday nought?
Is that day nought on which our Saviour bled,
To buy our pardon, to save by suff’ring!
Open salvation’s fount for crimson crimes,
And wash, and make us guilty lepers clean?
Alas for man! He sees, he feels it not!
Of old, men saw, and felt it, though far off.
The martyrs saw, own’d, and observ’d it too,
In fasting, prayer, and self-denial;
This made them march, when call’d, with holy joy,
To meet the dagger’s point, or burning stake.
The earth once felt, and felt to her foundations;
The marble mountain felt, and quak’d, and shiver’d;
The sun felt, and grew dark; the heavens wept,
And hell beneath, in dismal groanings howl’d!
The serpent felt,—and still feels in his bruis’d head.
The Saviour!—Yes, the King of Glory felt,
In that sad cup his subjects should have drunk:—
Both in the temple, and the wilderness,
The street, the judgment hall,—in Pilate’s scourge,
In cruel mockings, and the scarlet robe!
He felt it too beneath the rugged wood,
When He fatigued climb’d Calvary’s steep brow!
He felt it in the hammer and the nails
That pierc’d his flesh, though he offended not!
He felt it in the reed, and crown of thorns!
He felt it in the hyssop, vinegar, and gall,
In strange upbraidings, and the soldier’s spear!
He felt it in that mighty crush, which should,
And would have crush’d, his guilty murderers.
He felt it till his mortal part expir’d!
He feels it yet, and so do his disciples:
But the proud stiff-neck’d sinner feels it not;—
Perverse, he will not, yet one day he shall!
Though he at present, feast and garnish out
His wife’s, or children’s birth days, and his own,
With songs, and cards, and music, and the dance,
Yet this, like Job’s day, shall be blotted out!
Though he will not, yet he shall regard it,
When God appears in majesty, and power,
Arm’d with thunder-bolts, and chariots of fire,
On all his foes to pour his vengeance!
Yes! All men then will wish to be his friends.
E’en those who have his words and grace despis’d,
Will wish their lives were to begin again!—
“Whither, O, whither shall the guilty flee,
When consternation turns the good man pale!”
TO A WITHERED FLOWER!
Withering Flower, upbraid me not!
Why cast on me that look so pale?
Why dost thou my attention court,
To listen to thy mournful tale?
Why bow thy head? Why bend thy neck?
Why look so drooping, wan, and cold?
To give my careless thoughts a check,—
And tell me I am getting old!
Fading Flower, upbraid me not!
Still nodding with the gentle breeze.
Or dost thou think I have forgot,
I too am wasting by degrees?
For scarce can I believe my sight,
Who lately saw thee fresh and gay;
That beauty could so early blight,
Or such fresh colours fade away!
Drooping Flower, upbraid me not!
But turn to Sol’s enlivening ray.
I in some climate cold or hot,
Must also sicken and decay!
Nay, why dost thou shake off thy leaf,
And show thy heart so fair and clean?
But mine to smite with inward grief,—
To feel the many plagues within.
Weeping Flower, upbraid me still!
For half the conquest thou hast gain’d.
Yes! listen to thy tale I will,
Until its meaning be explain’d.
Fair emblem thou of human life;
In thee its changing tints are seen;
Our visit here, so frail and brief,
Is painted in those tints of thine!
When in thy bud so rich and gay,
Thou did’st escape the spoiler’s hand
That would have reft thy charms away,
’Twas pity check’d—and let thee stand!
While cherish’d by the blushing fair,
And waving on thy hardy stem,
Thy fragrance rich, perfum’d the air,—
Thou’rt blasted now to me and them!
Unlike to thee, whose task is done,
When Man shall quit this vale of tears,
After this life’s short glass is run,
Man shall exist in nobler spheres.
All earthly glories fade away,
So transient and so insecure;
With us, alas, how short’s their stay!
Prefigur’d by a dying Flower!