A passing cross—The disciple

(The Saviour of the World, Vol III Book IV Poem XXXIX)

My soul, and whence is this to thee!
Would’st know if so great marvel be,
That Jesus Christ should condescend
To dwell, thy close, abiding Friend?

Ask not alone of gracious moods,
When peace with wings of healing broods,
And meekness, love, and patience sit,
Disciples, at those wounded feet.

If Christ doth truly dwell in thee,
Uneasy Inmate will He be;
A heavy Presence, sighing, sad,
Shall oft defy thee to make glad

With any joy that sense can bring;
In vain thou stirr’st thy heart to sing
As though no care oppress’d thy state;
A Man of Sorrows, He doth wait

Till thou be moved to hear His plaint;
Till thou perceive it is thy taint,
The plague spot of an alien heart,
That moves Him to so sad a part!

And then—ah, when, His grief made thine,
When penitence, sharp grace divine,
Doth the corrupting spot atone
In tears, all His, and yet thine own,—

Thy springing heart, a child’s again,
Forgetting all the former pain,
Is jocund with the temper’d mirth
Of souls new wash’d to their new birth!