THE CROSS.

THE cross, the cross! How throbs my breast, Whene'er its hallowed form I see,

Pledge of a sure and glorious rest,

To worms like me!

As on thro' stranger-lands I go,

I hail my loved Redeemer's sign,-
The blood-stained cross! It was His woe,

And it is mine.

I cannot shun its gentle sway,

Nor would I, if my soul had power; Whether it climb yon mountain-way,

Or city tower.

THE CROSS.

Then tell me not of Satan's lure,-
Or man's misuse of hallowed things,-
No deed of ill, or thought impure

From the cross springs.

What though on many a mystic rite
Deep characters of shame are graven,
The cross-crowned dome directs the sight
From earth to heav'n.

What though in some lone shadowy dell,
It trace where murder's hand hath been,—
A fouler deed its symbols tell,

And mine the sin!

Then 'tis not pride forbids me bow
My knee, yon lowly group among,-
There sat to watch on Calvary's brow,
No nobler throng.

And if to one so vile be given,
Humbly to sit at Jesu's feet,

I would not wish, in earth or heav'n,

A prouder seat.