  LO, from Thy Father’s bosom Thou dost sigh; Deep to Thy restlessness His ear is bent:— “Father, the Paraclete is sent, Wrapt in a foaming wind He passeth by. Behold, men’s hearts are shaken—I must die: Sure as a star within the firmament Must be my dying: lo, my wood is rent, My cross is sunken! Father, I must die!” Lo, how God loveth us, He looseth hold.... His Son is back among us, with His own, And craving at our hands an altar-stone. Thereon, a victim, meek He takes his place; And, while to offer Him His priests make bold, He looketh upward to His Father’s Face. |
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