For, through the shining multitude, With feeble step and slow, A weary man, in garments rude, All falteringly did go. His face was white, and still-composed, Like one that had been dead; The eyes, from eyelids half unclosed, A faint, wan splendour shed. And to his brow a strange wreath clung, And drops of crimson hue; And his rough hands, oh, sadly wrung! Were pierced through and through. And not a look he turned aside; His eyes were forward bent; And slow the eyelids opened wide, As towards the throne he went. At length he reached the mighty throne, And sank upon his knees; And clasped his hands with stifled groan, And spake in words like these:-- "Father, I am come back--Thy will Is sometimes hard to do." From all the multitude so still, A sound of weeping grew. And mournful-glad came down the One, And kneeled, and clasped His child; Sank on His breast the outworn man, And wept until he smiled. And when their tears had stilled their sighs, And joy their tears had dried, The people saw, with lifted eyes, Them seated side by side. 5. I lay and dreamed. Three crosses stood Amid the gloomy air. Two bore two men--one was the Good; The third rose waiting, bare. A Roman soldier, coming by, Mistook me for the third; I lifted up my asking eye For Jesus' sign or word. I thought He signed that I should yield, And give the error way. I held my peace; no word revealed, No gesture uttered _nay._ Against the cross a scaffold stood, Whence easy hands could nail The doomed upon that altar-wood, Whose fire burns slow and pale. Upon this ledge he lifted me. I stood all thoughtful there, Waiting until the deadly tree My form for fruit should bear. Rose up the waves of fear and doubt, Rose up from heart to brain; They shut the world of vision out, And thus they cried amain: "Ah me! my hands--the hammer's knock-- The nails--the tearing strength!" My soul replied: "'Tis but a shock, That grows to pain at length." "Ah me! the awful fight with death; The hours to hang and die; The thirsting gasp for common breath, That passes heedless by!" My soul replied: "A faintness soon Will shroud thee in its fold; The hours will go,--the fearful noon Rise, pass--and thou art cold. "And for thy suffering, what to thee Is that? or care of thine? Thou living branch upon the tree Whose root is the Divine! "'Tis His to care that thou endure; That pain shall grow or fade; With bleeding hands hang on thy cure, He knows what He hath made." And still, for all the inward wail, My foot was firmly pressed; For still the fear lest I should fail Was stronger than the rest. And thus I stood, until the strife The bonds of slumber brake; I felt as I had ruined life, Had fled, and come awake. Yet I was glad, my heart confessed, The trial went not on; Glad likewise I had stood the test, As far as it had gone.