III.

O dearest God,

Divinely blind,

What could'st Thou find

In this poor clod

Thy love to bind?

I love Thee, Lord,
Because in Thee

The truth I see

Of that sweet word:

"Who first loved me ".

ECCE HOMO!

A plaything of man's hate and pride,
All worn and wan,

In mocking purple clad-new-dyed
With eager streams of life's red tide-
Behold the Man!

And yet, when senseless we, how feels
Each senseless thing!

For though a Caesar's be the seals,

Lo, Christ the yielding rock reveals:

Behold the King!

And now He plans a Wedding-Feast:

Around His Board

Throng good and bad, and great and least, The wise, the fool, the scribe, the priest: Behold the Lord!

Yet meekly, in His altared bliss,

He wields no rod,

While saints adore, and scoffers hiss,

And friends embrace, and traitors kiss:
Behold the God!

VIATICUM.

To yon far, cloud-capped moutain-top, the wind
Fresh from the empyrean, hasteth first;
And tosses gently, with no touch unkind,
Yon pine tufts faint outlined,

That like a censer swung in air athirst,
With billowy fragrance burst.

Then from the eternal silence of the peak,

Descendeth to the woodland's noisy haunts,
Where every spray, instinct with life, doth seek
Its saga-dreams to speak;

And every living thing its singing vaunts
In endless strophied chaunts.

Haply, 'twill find some windharp's hollow, whence "Twill seek a higher-themèd song-alone

It wakes the tremulous chords to finer sense
Of their incompetence;

And leaves the conscious impuissant tone
To sleep with sigh and moan!

'Tis thus the Spirit, breathing where He lists,
Not to the heaven-lit brow alone doth fare

Of some great Saint, in whose pure heart exists
A love that ne'er resists,

But in its benediction breatheth rare
Incense of holy prayer.

Nay, but to deeps where sun hath never shone;
Adown through ever-thickening atmosphere
Of lessened love, to hearts whose hollow cone
Broodeth o'er Self alone;

Yea, in that tender, melting Presence near, Can find alone to fear!

Oh! then, if I, too, feel the vexing sweetness,

When the great heart of God is beating nigh, And bids me leave, with eager upward fleetness, Earth's noisy incompleteness,

Will plaintive sadness be my sole reply?
My only song-a sigh?

2

FOOLISH AND SLOW OF HEART.

What is man, that Thou art mindful of him? or the son of man, that Thou visitest him?-Ps. viii. 5.

DISCIPLE.

From doubt, O Lord, redeem
Weak heart and weary brain;
For all this mighty scheme
To me doth seem

A dream-yet if a dream,

Waking, what pain!

MASTER.

The Shepherd, child of mine,
Casteth not up the cost,

But leaves the ninety-nine,

To search and pine

Till his fond arms entwine

That which was lost.

DISCIPLE.

Yet how shall I, dull earth,

Reckon the need He hath
Of what is nothing worth?

To noblest birth

Winning from utter dearth,

A child of wrath?

MASTER.

What need, you truly say,

Were lesser love the measure;

God's, knowing bound nor stay,

Findeth a way