Christ Blessing the Bread.
By T. Dale
Onward it speeds! the awful hour
From man's first fall decreed,
When the dark Serpent's wrath shall bruise
The woman's spotless seed;
The foe He met—the desert path
Triumphantly He trod;
But now a darker, deadlier strife
Awaits the Son of God! Soon shall a strange and midnight gloom
Involve the conscious heaven,
While in Jehovah's inmost fane
The mystic veil is riven!
Soon shall one deep and dying groan
The solid mountains rend,
The yawning graves shall yield their dead,
The buried saints ascend! And yet, amid his little flock,
Still Jesus stands, serene,
Unawed by suffering yet to be,
Unchanged by what hath been.
Still beams the light of love undimmed
In that benignant eye,
Nor, save his own prophetic word,
Aught speaks him soon to die! He pours within the votive cup
The rich blood of the vine,
And, "Drink ye all the hallowed draught,"
He cries, "This blood is mine!"
He breaks the bread; then clasps his hands,
And lifts his eyes in prayer,
"Receive ye this, and view by faith
My body symbolled there! "For, like the wine that crowns this cup,
My blood shall soon be shed;
My body broken on the cross,
As now I break the bread;
For you the crimson streams shall flow—
For you the hand divine
Bears the red sword, although the heart
That meets the blow, be mine! "And oft your willing vows renew
Around the sacred board,
And break the bread and pour the wine
In memory of your Lord!
To drink with me the grape's fresh blood
To you shall yet be given,
Fresh from the deathless Vine that blooms
In blest abodes of heaven."
[T. Dale.]