The Second Crucifixion

But through all the joy I knew-I only

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How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold,
Silent of its music, and how lonely!

Never, though you crown me with your gold,
Shall I find that little chamber as of old!

Frances Bannerman [18

THE SECOND CRUCIFIXION

LOUD mockers in the roaring street
Say Christ is crucified again:
Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet,
Twice broken His great heart in vain.

I hear, and to myself I smile,

For Christ talks with me all the while.

No angel now to roll the stone
From off His unawaking sleep,
In vain shall Mary watch alone,
In vain the soldiers vigil keep.

Yet while they deem my Lord is dead
My eyes are on His shining head.

Ah! never more shall Mary hear
That voice exceeding sweet and low
Within the garden calling clear:

Her Lord is gone, and she must go.

Yet all the while my Lord I meet
In every London lane and street.

Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain,

And Bartimæus still go blind;
The healing hem shall ne'er again

Be touched by suffering humankind.

Yet all the while I see them rest,
The poor and outcast, on His breast.

No more unto the stubborn heart
With gentle knocking shall He plead,
No more the mystic pity start,

For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.

So in the street I hear men say,

Yet Christ is with me all the day.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of Heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep. Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays, Beneath the arch of Heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

And join the choirs that sing

In yon

blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

De Sheepfol'

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'Twere Heaven indeed

Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature's charms to feed,

And Nature's own great God adore.

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Charles Sprague [1791-1875]

DE SHEEPFOL'

DE massa ob de sheepfol',
Dat guards de sheepfol' bin,
Look out in de gloomerin' meadows,
Wha'r de long night rain begin-
So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd,
"Is my sheep, is dey all come in?—
My sheep, is dey all come in?"

Oh den, says de hirelin' shepa’d:
"Dey's some, dey's black and thin,
And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's,
Dat can't come home agin.

Dey's some black sheep an' ol' wedda's,
But de res', dey's all brung in.—

De res', dey's all brung in."

Den de massa ob de sheepfol',

Dat guards de sheepfol' bin,

Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows,
Wha'r de long night rain begin-
So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol',

Callin' sof', "Come in. Come in."
Callin' sof', "Come in.

Come in."

Den up t'ro' de gloomerin' meadows,

T'ro' de col' night rain and win',
And up t'ro' de gloomerin' rain-paf',

Wha'r de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin,

De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gadderin' in.

De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol',
Dey all comes gadderin' in.

Sarah Pratt McLean Greene [1856

THE LOST SHEEP

("THE NINETY AND NINE")

THERE were ninety and nine that safely lay

In the shelter of the fold;

But one was out on the hills away,
Far off from the gates of gold,-
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

"Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine:

Are they not enough for thee?"

But the Shepherd made answer: ""Tis of mine
Has wandered away from me;

And although the road be rough and steep

I go to the desert to find my sheep."

But none of the ransomed ever knew

How deep were the waters crossed,

Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through

Ere he found his sheep that was lost.

Out in the desert he heard its cry

Sick and helpless, and ready to die.

"Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way,
That mark out the mountain-track?"
"They were shed for one who had gone astray

Ere the Shepherd could bring him back.”
"Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?"
"They are pierced to-night by many a thorn."

But all through the mountains, thunder-riven,
And up from the rocky steep,

There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,
"Rejoice! I have found my sheep!"

Lost But Found

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And the angels echoed around the throne, "Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!" Elizabeth Cecilia Clephane [1830-1869]

LOST BUT FOUND

I WAS a wandering sheep,

I did not love the fold;

I did not love my Shepherd's voice,

I would not be controlled.

I was a wayward child,

I did not love my home,

I did not love my Father's voice,
I loved afar to roam.

The Shepherd sought his sheep;
The Father sought his child;
They followed me o'er vale and hill,
O'er deserts waste and wild.
They found me nigh to death,
Famished, and faint, and lone;

They bound me with the bands of love;
They saved the wandering one.

They spoke in tender love,

They raised my drooping head;

They gently closed my bleeding wounds,
My fainting soul they fed.

They washed my filth away,

They made me clean and fair;

They brought me to my home in peace,

The long-sought wanderer.

Jesus my Shepherd is,

'Twas he that loved my soul;

'Twas he that washed me in his blood,

'Twas he that made me whole;

'Twas he that sought the lost,
That found the wandering sheep;
'Twas he that brought me to the fold,
'Tis he that still doth keep.