2 O Jesu, Thou art knocking :
And lo! that hand is scarred,
And thorns Thy brow encircle,
And tears Thy face have marred.
O love that passeth knowledge,
So patiently to wait !
O sin that hath no equal,
So fast to bar the gate!
3 O Jesu, Thou art pleading
In accents meek and low,
"I died for you, My children,
And will ye treat Me so?"
O Lord, with shame and sorrow
We open now the door :
Dear Saviour, enter, enter,
And leave us never more. W. W. How.
KNOCKING, knocking, who is there?
Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair!
'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before.
Ah! my soul, for such a wonder,
Wilt thou not undo the door?
Knocking, knocking, still He's there,
Waiting, waiting, wondrous fair;
But the door is hard to open,
For the weeds and ivy-vine,
With their dark and clinging tendrils,
Ever round the hinges twine.
Knocking, knocking-what, still there?
Waiting, waiting, grand and fair!
Yes, the pierced hand still knocketh,
And beneath the crowned hair
Beam the patient eyes, so tender,
Of the Saviour, waiting there.
4 Enter, enter, heavenly guest!
Welcome, welcome to my breast!
Long have I withstood Thy knocking,
And my heart was filled with sin,
But Thy love the door hath opened;
Blessed Saviour, enter in !
1 BEHOLD a Stranger at the door;
He gently knocks, has knocked before;
Has waited long, is waiting still;
You use no other friend so ill.
2 But will He prove a friend indeed ?
He will, the very friend you need;
The Friend of sinners, yes, 'tis He,
With garments dyed at Calvary.
3 Admit Him, for the human breast
Ne'er entertained so kind a guest;
Admit Him,—or the hour's at hand,
When at His door denied you'll stand.
4 Yet know, nor of the terms complain,
If Jesus comes, He comes to reign;
To reign, and with no partial sway;
Thoughts must be slain that disobey.
5 Sov'reign of souls! Thou Prince of Peace!
O may Thy gentle reign increase;
Throw wide the door, each willing mind,
And be Thy empire all mankind.
LORD, what am I that with unceasing care
Thou didst seek after me, that Thou didst wait
Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
Oh strange delusion!-that I did not greet
Thy blest approach,-and oh, to heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet!
How oft Thy Holy Spirit gently cried,
Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt
How He persists to knock and wait for thee; And oh, how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open," I replied,
And when the morrow came, I answered still, "To-morrow!" Tr. Longfellow.
WEEK BEFORE EASTER.
"A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.
1 DIDE on! ride on in majesty !
Hark! all the tribes Hosanna cry;
O Saviour meek! pursue Thy road
With alms and scattered garments strowed.
2 Ride on! ride on in majesty !
In lowly pomp ride on to die:
O Christ! Thy triumphs now begin
O'er captive death and conquered sin.
3 Ride on ! ride on in majesty!
The angel armies of the sky
Look down with sad and wondering eyes
To see the approaching Sacrifice.
4 Ride on ride on in majesty !
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh:
The Father on His sapphire throne
Awaits His own anointed Son.
5 Ride on ride on in majesty !
In lowly pomp ride on to die ;
Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain;
Then take, O God! Thy power, and reign.
6 Reign on reign on in majesty !
Reign on in triumph, Lord Most High!
We hymn Thee on Thy throne of love,
Almighty King, in realms above! Milman
HY doth my Saviour weep
At sight of Sion's bowers?
Shows it not fair from yonder steep
Her gorgeous crown of towers?
Mark well His holy pains;
"Tis not in pride or scorn
That Israel's King with sorrow stains
His own triumphal morn.
2 It is not that His soul
Is wandering sadly on,
In thought how soon at death's dark goal
Their course will all be run,
Who now are shouting round
Hosanna to their chief;
No thought like this in Him is fou
This were a conqueror's grief.
3 Or does He feel the cross
Already in His heart,
The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss-
Feel even His God depart?
No: though He knew full well
The grief that then shall be,
The grief that angels cannot tell,
Our God in agony.
4 It is not thus He mourns;
Such might be martyr's tears,
When his last lingering look he turns
On human hopes and fears;
But hero ne'er, or saint,
The secret load might know
With which His spirit waxeth faint;
His is a Saviour's woe.
5 "If thou hadst known, even thou,
At least in this thy day,
The message of thy peace! but now
'Tis passed for aye away:
Now foes shall trench thee round,
And lay thee even with earth,
And dash thy children to the ground,
Thy glory and thy mirth!"
6 And doth the Saviour weep
Over His people's sin,
Because we will not let Him keep
The souls He died to win?
Ye hearts, that love the Lord,
If at this sight ye burn,
See that in thought, in deed, in word,
Ye hate what made Him mourn.
WHEN, His salvation bringing,
To Zion Jesus came,
The children all stood singing
Hosanna to His name.
Nor did their zeal offend Him,
But, as He rode along,
He let them still attend Him,
Well pleased to hear their song:
Hosanna to Jesus they sang.
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