MR. BALL S PICTURE OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 43 



Were any vile enough to wound a breast 



So pure — and kind — and merciful as thine ? 

 Did blasphemy thy tortured ear offend ? 



And bigotry each sacred truth revile ? 

 Did unbelief its scoffing arm extend ? 



Ingratitude betray thee with a smile ? 



And hypocrites look on, with demon sneer the while 't 



But injuries and toils will soon be o^er — 



Thy pilgrimage of pity and of pain — 

 That sinless brow shall throb and ache no more, 



Nor wear that thorny diadem again ! 

 Yet, ere thy spirit to it's bliss returns. 



Still on this group of mourners does it cast 

 A look where tenderness unmingled yearns 



Ineffable-^the fondest — and the last, 



Till mortal grief — and love — and sympathy are past. 



Blest mother ! to another^s care resigned — 



To him he points thee with emphatic tone — 

 And says, with drooping head to thee inclined, 



And dying energy " Behold thy son.'^ 

 Thy sister catches agonized the sound — 



And thou, with deep, unutterable woe, 

 Insensible to all beside around — 



Yet still dost with the promised future glow — 



Thy gentle eye upturned from earth and all below f 



The favoured one who leaned upon his breast. 



Stricken and desolate, his fate deplores ; 

 And, as he listens to that last request, 



With mute intensity his Lord adores ! 

 And thou, the Magdalen, can nought console ! 



Must he depart who was thy being^s sun ? 

 And dost thou share the anguish of his soul ? 



And grieve that now his counsels all are done. 



And thou, unblest and sad, the race of life must run ? 



O, weep not, Mary ! cling not to his cross, 



Nor vainly wish him to descend again ; 

 Though bitter and unspeakable thy loss. 



Oh, think how vast and infinite his gain ! 

 His words but late, should banish thy despair, — 



That where he dwells thy happy home shall be ; 

 No direful cloud to veil his presence there. 



