O highly favored thou in many an hour Spent in lone musings with thy wondrous Son, When thou didst gaze into that glorious eye, And hold that mighty hand within thine own. Blest through those thirty years, when in thy dwelling He lived a God disguised with unknown power; And thou his sole adorer, his best love, Trusting, revering, waited for his hour. Blest in that hour, when called by opening heaven With cloud and voice, and the baptizing flame, Up from the Jordan walked th' acknowledged stranger, And awe-struck crowds grew silent as He came. Blessèd, when full of grace, with glory crowned, He from both hands almighty favors poured, And, though He had not where to lay his head, Brought to his feet alike the slave and lord. Crowds followed; thousands shouted, "Lo, our King!" Fast beat thy heart. Now, now the hour draws nigh: Behold the crown, the throne, the nations bend! Ah, no! fond mother, no! behold Him die! Now by that cross thou tak'st thy final station, And shar'st the last dark trial of thy Son; Not with weak tears or woman's lamentation, But with high, silent anguish, like his own. Hail! highly favored, even in this deep passion; Hail! in this bitter anguish thou art blest,-- Blest in the holy power with Him to suffer Those deep death-pangs that lead to higher rest. All now is darkness; and in that deep stillness The God-man wrestles with that mighty woe; Hark to that cry, the rock of ages rending,-- "'Tis finished!" Mother, all is glory now! By sufferings mighty as his mighty soul Hath the Redeemer risen forever blest; And through all ages must his heart-belovèd Through the same baptism enter the same rest. THE INNER VOICE "Come ye yourselves into a desert place and rest awhile; for there were many coming and going, so that they had no time so much as to eat." 'Mid the mad whirl of life, its dim confusion, Its jarring discords and poor vanity, Breathing like music over troubled waters, What gentle voice, O Christian, speaks to thee? It is a stranger,--not of earth or earthly; By the serene, deep fullness of that eye,-- By the calm, pitying smile, the gesture lowly,-- It is thy Saviour as He passeth by. "Come, come," He saith, "O soul oppressed and weary, Come to the shadows of my desert rest, Come walk with me far from life's babbling discords, And peace shall breathe like music in thy breast. "Art thou bewildered by contesting voices,-- Sick to thy soul of party noise and strife? Come, leave it all, and seek that solitude Where thou shalt learn of me a purer life.