Thy Son had passed it. Thou upon the hill
Of scorn hadst stood beside his cross; and still
Wouldst “follow the Lamb where’er he went.” Of fear
Thou knewest naught. The cup’s last drop, so dear
To Him, thy love must share—or miss its fill.
But more. Thy other children—even we—
Must enter life through death. And couldst thou brook
To watch our terrors at the dark unknown,
Powerless to stay us with a sympathy
Better than any tender word or look—