Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
| |
| FRAIL multitude! whose giddy law is list, 1 | |
| And best applause is windy flattering, | |
| Most like the breath of which it doth consist, | |
| No sooner blown but as soon vanishing, | |
| As much desired, as little profiting, | 5 |
| That makes the men that have it oft as light | |
| As those that give it, which the proud invite, | |
| And fear; the bad man’s friend, the good man’s hypocrite. | |
| |
| It was but now their sounding clamours sung, | |
| “Blessed is He that comes from the Most High!” | 10 |
| And all the mountains with hosannah rung; | |
| And now, “Away with Him, away!” they cry, | |
| And nothing can be heard but “Crucify”: | |
| It was but now the crown itself they save, | |
| And golden name of King unto Him gave; | 15 |
| And now no king but only Cæsar they will have. | |
| |
| It was but now they gathered blooming May, | |
| And of his arms disrobed the branching tree, | |
| To strow with boughs and blossoms all Thy way; | |
| And now the branchless trunk a cross for Thee, | 20 |
| And May dismay’d thy coronet must be: | |
| It was but now they were so kind to throw | |
| Their own best garments, where Thy feet should go; | |
| And now Thyself they strip, and bleeding wounds they show. | |
| |
| See where the Author of all life is dying: | 25 |
| O fearful day! He dead, what hope of living? | |
| See where the hopes of all our lives are buying; | |
| O cheerful day! they bought, what fear of grieving? | |
| Love love for hate and life for death is giving: | |
| Lo, how His arms are stretch’d abroad to grace thee, | 30 |
| And, as they open stand, call to embrace thee: | |
| Why stay’st thou then, my soul? O fly, fly, thither haste thee! | |
| |
| What better friendship than to cover shame? | |
| What greater love than for a friend to die? | |
| Yet this is better to asself 2 the blame, | 35 |
| And this is greater, for an enemy: | |
| But more than this, to die, not suddenly, | |
| Not with some common death or easy pain, | |
| But slowly, and with torments to be slain: | |
| O depth without a depth, far better seen than say’n! | 40 |
| |
| And yet the Son is humbled for the slave, | |
| And yet the slave is proud before the Son: | |
| Yet the Creator for His creature gave | |
| Himself, and yet the creature hastes to run | |
| From his Creator, and self-good doth shun: | 45 |
| And yet the Prince, and God Himself, doth cry | |
| To man, his traitor, pardon not to fly: | |
| Yet man his God, and traitor doth his Prince defy. | |
