WHERE rough Golgotha's ramparts rise
Without the "city gateway,"
I stand, beneath the Syrian skies,
And, lo! there cometh straightway
A throng, who lead a virgin's Son—
Their hate-tipped tongues deride Him—
Thorn-crown'd, cross-burdened, and undone;
And "there they crucified Him."
They strip, and spike Him to the wood,
While traitors taunt and chide Him,
'Mid oaths and curses, tears and blood;
And "there they crucified Him."
I marvel when I hear Him pray,
With pleading gaze above them;
For as I listen He doth say,
He does so truly love them, "Forgive them, Father, they forget."
I wonder at the awful scene,—
The pregnant passions swaying,
The darksome deeds that so demean,
Still fouler lust bewraying.
I see the soldier stern and cold,
The boaster who denied Him,
The low-browed ruffian, bad and bold;
And "there they crucified Him."
I hear them cry, "Away with Him,"
And gnash their teeth upon Him,
While vicious villains, gaunt and grim,
Exude their vileness on Him.
Those murderers beside Him,
Unheeding still, refuse Him yet;
And "there they crucified Him."
The day shrank into night at noon,
Appal'd at human blindness;
The dead sprang free from death's long swoon,
Thrill'd by His loving-kindness;
All heaven shone out, in Him revealed—
Nor hate, nor hell could hide Him;
The vail was rent and love unsealed,
Yet, still, "they crucified Him."
