He might have left us his name to ring in our triumph song
When we stand, as we’ll stand at to-morrow’s dawn, by the grave of a world-old wrong.
For he gave thee, O mother of valiant sons, thou fair, and sore oppressed,
The love of his youth and his manhood’s choice—first-fruits of his life, and best.
Thine were throb of his heart and thought of his brain and toil of his strong right hand;
For thee he braved scorn and reviling, and loss of gold and land,
Threat and lure and false-hearted friend, and blight of a broken word—
Terrors of night and delay of light—prison and rack and sword.
For thee he bade death defiance—till the heavens opened wide,
And his face grew bright with reflex of light from the face of the Crucified.