  The eve of Golgotha had come, And Christ lay shrouded in the garden's tomb: Among the olives, Oh, how dumb, How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom! The hill grew dim—the pleading cross Reached empty arms toward the closing gate. Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss! Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late! Reached bleeding arms—but how in vain! The murmurous multitude within the wall Already had forgot His pain— To-morrow would forget the cross—and all! They knew not Rome before its sign, Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne, Would sweep all lands from Nile to Rhine In servitude unto the Nazarene. Nor knew that millions would forsake Ancestral shrines great with the glow of time, And lifting up its token shake Aeons with thrill of love or battle's crime. With empty arms aloft it stood: Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well! The cross emblotted with His blood Mounts, highest Hope of men against earth's hell! |
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