Classic Poem

He hangs a dead corpse on the tree,
Who made the whole world's life to spring:
And, as some outcast, shameful, thing
The Lord of all we see.

Darkness falls thick to shroud the time:
Nature herself breaks up, and cries:
Even from the grave shocked ghosts arise,
At this tremendous crime.

Speak not: no human voice may tell
The secrets, which these hours enfold:
By treacherous hands to traitors sold,
God yields Himself to Hell.

Speak not, draw close: through stricken heart
Drink in the sense of all that's here:
The shame, the cross, the nails, the spear,
Rending His soul apart.

Ah! and far crueller, far, than they,
(Tools, and mere symbols these) our sin!
Breathe to thyself, soul, deep within,
“'Twas I, that caused this day.”

Speak not: He speaks not: no reproach
Falls from Those dying lips on thee:
No vengeance, muttering ills to be,
Bars thy devout approach.

Stricken, unmurmuring, dead, divine,
This day He hangs, as He hung of old:
Only the dire sight cries, “Behold!
Was ever love like Mine?”