Her head in ignominy, death, and tombs, She her good Shepherd's hasty image drew-- And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. MATTHEW ARNOLD. * * * * * TWO SAYINGS. Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures beat Like pulses in the Church's brow and breast; And by them we find rest in our unrest, And heart-deep in salt tears, do yet entreat God's fellowship, as if on heavenly seat. The first is _Jesus wept_, whereon is prest Full many a sobbing face that drops its best And sweetest waters on the record sweet: And one is, where the Christ denied and scorned _Looked upon Peter_. Oh, to render plain, By help of having loved a little and mourned, That look of sovran love and sovran pain Which he who could not sin yet suffered, turned On him who could reject but not sustain! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. * * * * * A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER. Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him; The little gray leaves were kind to Him; The thorn-tree had a mind to Him When into the woods He came. Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last: 'Twas on a tree they slew Him--last, When out of the woods He came. SIDNEY LANIER. * * * * * STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. Stood the afflicted mother weeping, Near the cross her station keeping Whereon hung her Son and Lord; Through whose spirit sympathizing, Sorrowing and agonizing, Also passed the cruel sword. Oh! how mournful and distressèd Was that favored and most blessèd Mother of the only Son, Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving, While perceiving, scarce believing, Pains of that Illustrious One! Who the man, who, called a brother. Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother In such deep distress and wild? Who could not sad tribute render Witnessing that mother tender Agonizing with her child? For his people's sins atoning, Him she saw in torments groaning, Given to the scourger's rod; Saw her darling offspring dying, Desolate, forsaken, crying. Yield his spirit up to God. Make me feel thy sorrow's power, That with thee I tears may shower, Tender mother, fount of love! Make my heart with love unceasing Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing I may be to him above. Holy mother, this be granted, That the slain one's wounds be planted Firmly in my heart to bide. Of him wounded, all astounded-- Depths unbounded for me sounded-- All the pangs with me divide.