The Morning Dawns upon the Place

The morn­ing dawns up­on the place

Where Je­sus spent the night in pray­er;

Through yield­ing glooms be­hold His face

Nor form nor come­li­ness is there.

Last eve

by those He called His own

Betrayed

for­sak­en

or de­nied

He met His ene­mies alone

In all their mal­ice

rage

and pride.

Brought forth to judg­ment

now He stands

Arraigned

con­demned

at Pi­late’s bar:

Here

spurned by fierce præ­tor­ian bands

There mocked by He­rod’s men of war.

He bears their buf­fet­ing and scorn

The hom­age of the lip

the knee

The pur­ple robe

the crown of thorn

The scourge

the nail

th’ac­curs­èd tree.

No guile with­in His mouth is found

He nei­ther threat­ens nor com­plains:

Meek as a lamb for slaugh­ter bound

Dumb ’midst His mur­der­ers He re­mains.

But hark! He prays—’tis for His foes;

He speaks—’tis com­fort to His friends;

Answers—and para­dise be­stows;

He bows His head; the con­flict ends.

Truly this was the Son of God!

Though in a serv­ant’s mean dis­guise;

And

bruised be­neath the Fa­ther’s rod

Not for Him­self—for man He dies.