The Kings and Queens of England with Other Poems by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow
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Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow >> The Kings and Queens of England with Other Poems
[Inscription: I will add a few words respecting my kings and
Queens.
They were hastily written from the impulse of the moment, for my
own entertainment, and that of my youngest grand-daughter, without
the remotest idea of printing them. This is my apology for the
careless, familiar style in which they were composed. At the
request of my children I concluded to print them, when it would
have been highly proper to have furnished my royal personages with
a dress more befitting the occasion. But the state of my eyes
rendered it very inconvenient, if not hazardous to attempt it.
And as they are only intended to visit a few of my friends, I
trust to their good nature to excuse the homely garb in which they
are presented.]
THE
KINGS AND QUEENS OF ENGLAND
WITH
OTHER POEMS
BY
MARY ANN H.T. BIGELOW
PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR
MDCCCLIII.
TO THE
COMPANION OF HER YOUTH, MIDDLE AGE, AND DECLINING YEARS,
THE FOLLOWING POEMS ARE INSCRIBED
BY HIS
AFFECTIONATE WIFE,
MARY ANN H.T. BIGELOW.
PREFACE.
I must claim the indulgence of my friends for the many defects they will
find in my poems, which they will please wink at, remembering that I was
sixty years old when I commenced rhyming; and this by way of experiment,
while on a visit to my daughter, in Brooklyn.
My first essay, was The Monarchs of England. I took it up for my
amusement, wishing to ascertain how much of that history I could recollect
without help from any other source than memory.
The rhyme is in many places far from smooth, and there are many
redundances that might with advantage be lopped off; and were it to come
under the critic's eye to be reviewed, I should feel it quite necessary to
improve it, (the poetry, I mean.) But as it would require quite too much
exertion for my eyes in their present state, and as the history, dates,
&c., I believe, are correct, I send it to the press "with all its
imperfections on its head."
CONTENTS.
Kings and Queens of England
To my Daughter Elizabeth
Acrostic
The Evening of Life
An Acrostic
An Acrostic
Written upon receiving a New Year's Gift
Lines to the Memory of Patrick Kelley
My S.S. Class
For my Grandsons, Eddie and Allie
For my Granddaughters, M. and L., an Acrostic
To my Friend, Mrs.R.
To my Niece, Angeline
An Acrostic
An Acrostic
She slumbers still
To a Friend in the City
Reply
Rejoinder to the foregoing Reply
To my Friend, Mr.J. Ellis
A Pastoral
The Jessamine
For the Sabbath School Concert
Feed my Lambs
God is Love
To my Friend, Mrs. Lloyd
Escape of the Israelites
Ordination Hymn
Margaret's Remembrance of Lightfoot
The Clouds return after the Rain
The Nocturnal Visit
Sovereignty and Free Agency
Autumn and Sunset
"My times are in thy hand"
November
Winter
Life's Changes
"They will not frame their doings"
"Take no thought for the morrow"
Reminiscences of the Departed
"Let me die the death of the righteous"
The Great Physician
To my Niece, Mrs. M.A. Caldwell
The Morning Drive, for my Daughter Margaret
Reply to a Toast
To Mr. C.R.
To my Missionary Friends
To my Husband
POEMS.
THE KINGS AND QUEENS OF ENGLAND,
FROM THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS OR THE NORMAN CONQUEST, TO THE PRESENT REIGN,
INCLUSIVE.
First, William the Norman lays claim to the crown
And retains it till death; then follows his son
The red headed William, whose life is cut short
By a shot from his friend, when hunting for sport.
Then Henry his brother takes quiet possession,
As Henry the first, of the great English nation.
Next Stephen, a kinsman gets the crown by his might,
But no one pretends to say he had a right.
Then comes Hal the second, who cuts a great figure
With Becket, fair Rosamond and Queen Eliner.
The Lion-hearted _Richard_, first of that name,
Succeeded his father in power and in fame;
He joined the Crusade to a far distant land
But his life was cut short by a murderous hand.
Next comes the _cruel_ and _cowardly_ John,
From whose hand, reluctant, Magna Charta was won.
Then his son Henry third, deny it who can?
Though unfit for a King, was yet a good man,
And his reign though a long one of fifty-six years
Was full of perplexities, sorrows, and fears.
His son Edward first next governs the nation,
Much respected and feared, in holding that station.
The Principality of Wales was annexed in his reign,
And his son Edward second, first Prince of that name.
But what shall I say of King Edward the third,
The most remarkable reign, that yet had occurred;
Fire arms in the war, were _first_ used in his reign,
And the battle of _Cressy_ of great note and fame,
To their introduction has the right to lay claim.
The knights of the Garter, first made in his reign
In honor it seems of a fair English dame,
The Duchess of Salisbury to whom it is said,
From Edward _peculiar_ attentions were paid.
Of Richard the second we have little to say,
And take up the fourth Henry, the next on our way,
Who reigned fourteen years, when death cut him down
And left his good Kingdom to Henry his son;
But ere nine years had past, the fifth Henry was borne
To the region of darkness from whence none return.
The next reign is full of commotion and strife,
And Henry the sixth is seen flying for life;
For though King of England, we cannot but see
He's but the shadow of a king--that _should_ be;
And during the thirty-nine years that he reigned
His crown and his sceptre were feebly retained.
It was in this reign on her mission intent,
That Joan of Arc to the battle field went:
The French troops were elated, the English dismayed
At the wonderful victories achieved by her aid;
At length fortune turns, and 'tis needless to tell
Of the fate of this maiden--it is all known too well.
Of Edward the fourth it seems proper to say
That he fancied Dame Shore, when wed to Bess Gray.
But the fate of Jane Shore, should be warning to all
Who from love, or ambition, are tempted to fall.
When Edward the fourth departed this earth,
He left two little sons, both Royal by birth;
But ere three years had pass'd, both met with their doom,
By a most cruel uncle, cut down in their bloom
Of youth, love, and beauty, and laid in the tomb.
King Edward the fifth was the eldest one's name,
Though never permitted by his uncle to reign.
Next comes cruel Richard, the third of that name,
Whose vices surpassing put others to shame.
When unhorsed in battle, he's so anxious to live,
That he cries "for a horse, my kingdom I'll give."
But in the same battle he had his last fall--
Lamented by none, but detested by all.
In the next reign the wars of the roses, all ended,
And the red rose and white, forever were blended;
For when Henry the seventh took Bessy his bride,
The knot of the roses forever was tied;
And when the sceptre descended from father to son,
The red and the white leaves all mingled in one.
King Henry the eighth had quite a long reign
Mixed up with his Anne's, his Katy's and Jane.
But from this King we turn with disgust and with shame,
And greet with delight, the sixth Edward by name.
But only six years did this King fill the throne,
When called to resign it and lay his crown down.
A worthier we think, has never set
On the throne of Great Britain--at least not as yet.
With pleasure we love to contemplate him now,
With a bright crown of Glory, encircling his brow,
In the region of _light, love, peace_, and of joy,
Where pleasures eternal can have no alloy.
Sin, sickness, and death, never find entrance there,
For the air is all balm, and the skies ever fair;
The clouds of his young life have all passed away
And he enjoys the full light of an endless day--
For all who find footing on that peaceful shore,
Shall hunger, and thirst, and sorrow no more.
But once more we return to this "dim speck of earth,"
And revisit the clime that gave Edward his birth.
Bloody Mary his sister, next mounted the throne,
But when five years had pass'd, was obliged to lay down,
Notwithstanding reluctance, her Sceptre and Crown.
For death to whom she had sent many a one,
Now called for his victim, and made her his own.
Not by _fire_ and by _faggot_ was _she_ hurried away,
But by painful sickness and loathsome decay.
Now commences the reign of the "Good Queen Bess,"
But _why_ she's called _good_ I never could guess:
Yet justice constrains me to allow in the main,
That her's was a glorious and most prosperous reign.
She had the good sense to know whom to admit
To her private councils, as men the most fit;
And by their advice, good sense and discretion,
She managed with _fitness_ to govern the nation.
As a Queen she seems great, though _weak_ as a woman,
And when praised as a _Goddess_, was no more than human;
At the age of threescore, she loved to be compared
As a beauty to Venus, though crook'd and red haired.
Of lovers she had full many a one,
Who sought, through her hand, a pass to the throne,
But chose to remain single; for full well she knew,
That in giving her hand, she gave away her power too.
In this reign we find ineffacible blots,
In the treatment of Essex, and Mary of Scots;
The death of the former, the Queen sorely repents,
And for her lost Essex she deeply laments.
The remorse of a Countess, in keeping his ring,
I leave to some rhymer, more able to sing.
Next James sixth of Scotland, _first_ of England became--
In peace and security permitted to reign.
In the person of James, two crowns were united,
And England and Scotland remain undivided.
With this king the reign of the Stuarts began,
And continued to the end of the reign of Queen Ann.
In the reign of Charles first, commences a strife
Between King and Parliament, that ends but with life;
This poor King was beheaded, his son had to flee,
And in his place Oliver Cromwell we see.
Now in Cromwell the ruler of England we find;
Right or wrong, I never could make up my mind;
Still all must allow (for deny it who can?)
That this same Oliver was a very great man.
In eleven years the days of the Commonwealth ended.
And gay Charles the second, the throne then ascended.
This second king Charles king of hearts might be call'd,
For many a fair one he seems t' have enthrall'd.
James second, brother of Charles second succeeded,
But after a reign of four years, he seceded;
When quitting his throne, and his country he flies
Over the channel to France, where he dies.
Next the Prince of Orange, (from Holland he came,)
For the crown of old England, asserted his claim
Through right of his wife, Princess Mary by name.
And William the third with Mary his wife
Are crowned King and Queen of England for life.
This princess was lovely in person and mind,
As a wife most devoted, a _friend ever_ kind.
Queen Ann's is the next reign that in order appears
And it covers the space of thirteen full years.
Her death brought the reign of the Stuarts to a close,
But firm on their ruins, the House of Hanover rose.
With this house the reign of the Georges begins--
And four in succession we count up as Kings.
George the third, grandson of the second, so called,
Was for virtues and goodness of heart much extolled.
His reign the longest of any appears,
Bearing title of king for sixty-two years.
But when aged four score, this good king we find
Bereft of his senses and hearing, and blind.
In this reign America declared herself free,
And independent of rulers over the sea.
At length death relieved him, and he was cut down,
To make way for his eldest and libertine son.
But though of talent acknowledged the son possessed more,
The _sire's heart was good_, the _son's corrupt at the core_;
Though admired for his beauty, and manners, and wit,
As a husband and father he never was fit.
But before we pass on to the next reign in course,
We have a most sorrowful tale to rehearse,
Of the young princess Charlotte, next heir to the crown,
In the spring time of life, scarce with warning cut down.
If ever the nation were mourners sincere,
'Twas when they united around the sad bier
Of this youthful princess so deservedly dear;
And stout-hearted men unaccustomed to mourn,
Let bitter tears fall, as they gazed on her urn.
But who can describe the anguish of one,
The heart-stricken husband apart and alone.
As the sun of his happiness rose to its height,
Death enters his dwelling, and lo! it is night;
The light of his house forever has fled,
For his loved one, his dearest, lies low with the dead.
In the _same_ day all his fair prospects were crossed,
When a _wife_, and a _son_, and a _kingdom_ he lost.
Next William the fourth, is proclaimed Britain's king,
For between him and his brother two deaths intervene.
No _legitimate_ child did he leave in possession
Of the Crown of old England, in right of succession;
So the diadem passed to the youthful brow
Of his niece Queen Victoria, who honors it now;
And for her we wish, as our rhyming we close,
A _long, peaceful reign_--an old age of repose.
Written while on a visit at Brooklyn, N.Y., 1851.
TO MY DAUGHTER ELIZABETH.
Two flowers upon one parent stem
Together bloomed for many days.
At length a storm arose, and _one_
Was blighted, and cut down at noon.
The other hath transplanted been,
And flowers _fair_ as _herself_ hath borne;
She too has felt the withering storm,
Her strength's decayed, wasted her form.
May he who hears the mourner's prayer,
Renew her strength for years to come;
Long may He our Lilly spare,
Long delay to call her home.
But when the summons shall arrive
To bear this lovely flower away,
Again may she transplanted be
To blossom in eternity.
There may these sisters meet again,
Both freed from sorrow, sin, and pain;
There with united voices raise,
In sweet accord their hymns of praise;
Eternally his name t' adore,
Who died, yet _lives forevermore_.
Weston, Jan. 3, 1852.
ACROSTIC.
For thee, my son, a mother's earnest prayer
Rises to Heaven each day from heart sincere,
Anxiously seeking what concerns thee most;
Not merely earthly good for thee she prays,
Knowledge, or wealth, or fame, or length of days,
What shall these profit, if the soul be lost.
In this life we find alternate day and night,
Not always darkness, _sure not always_ light;
'Tis well it should be so, we're travellers here,
Home, _that_ "sweet home," the Christian's place of rest,
Rises by faith to view when most distressed:
Oh! this life past--mayst thou find entrance there.
Perplexed, distressed, sick, or by friends betrayed,
Beset with snares, deprived of human aid,
In all thy sorrows whatsoe'er they be,
Go to the Saviour, tell him all thy need,
Entreat his pity, he's a friend indeed;
Lay hold by faith on _Him_, and he will succor thee.
Oh, do not live for this dull world alone,
When with the _Angels_ thou mayst find a home.
Jan. 1853.
THE EVENING OF LIFE.
As the shadows of evening around me are falling,
With its dark sombre curtain outspread,
And night's just at hand, chilly night so appalling,
And day's brilliant sunshine hath fled,
It is e'en so with me, for the eve of my day
Has arrived, yet I scarcely know how;
Bright morn hath departed, and noon passed away,
And 'tis evening, _pale_ eve with me now.
Oh! where are the friends who in life's early morn,
With me did their journey commence;
Some are estranged, while some few still remain,
And others departed long since.
And when I too, like them, shall be summoned away,
And the shadows of death on me fall,
Be thou the Great Shepherd of Israel but near,
My Saviour, my God, and my all.
And though the "dark valley" we all must pass through,
Yet surely no evil can harm
The _sheep_, when the Shepherd is walking there too,
And supports them by his mighty arm.
Oh! my Redeemer, wilt thou be with me then,
And food for my journey provide,
Divide the dark waters of Jordan again,
And safe in thy bosom me hide.
Though wild beasts of the desert may roar long and loud,
And the billows of ocean rise high,
With thy rod and thy staff for my strength and support,
I shall pass them in safety all by.
And having crossed Jordan, on Canaan's bright shore
With what joy shall I take a survey,
And reflect that the dangers of life are all o'er,
And with unclouded vision enjoy evermore
The bright sun of an endless day.
Weston, Feb. 4, 1852.
AN ACROSTIC.
Merry, merry little child,
Active, playful, sometimes wild;
Rosy cheeks, and ringlets rare,
Glossy black, with eyes compare.
_All, all_ these belong to thee,
Right pleasant little Margerie.
Every good, dear child, be given
Thee on earth, and rest in heaven.
But who thy future lot can see?
All, _every_ page is hid from me;
Xtended through eternity,
Thy life so late begun will be.
Earnest seek to know the truth,
Remember God in early youth;
When in his sacred courts thou art,
Engage in worship thy _whole heart_;
Listen to what the preacher says,
Listen to prayers, and list to praise,
In nothing see thou dost offend,
Nor fail the Sabbath _well_ to spend.
Give to thy parents honor due,
Thy sisters love, and brothers too;
Oh! good and happy mayst thou be,
Now and ever, Margerie.
AN ACROSTIC.
Cannot happiness perfect be found on this earth?
How absurd to expect it--sin comes with our birth.
As soon from spring bitter, sweet water procure,
Rich clusters of grapes from the thorn;
Look for figs upon thistles, when seeking for food,
Or bread from the cold flinty stone.
The wealth of the Indies, _true_ peace can't bestow,
The Crown Royal oft presses an aching brow,
E'en in laughter there's madness--mirth coupled with woe.
As true peace in this world, then, can never be found,
Until deep in the heart Christian graces abound,
Give diligent heed to the keeping thy heart;
Unwearied in effort, repel every dart
So dextrously pointed by Satan's black art.
True peace is from Heaven--a child of the skies,
And feeble exertions secure not the prize.
Never falter in duty, but trust in that power
Engaged to support you in each trying hour;
When sinking like Peter amidst the dark wave,
Ever look unto Jesus, almighty to save.
Look _to_ him, live _like_ him, be strong in his might,
Lay thy _burden_ on him, and thy _cross_ he'll make light.
WRITTEN UPON RECEIVING A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.
I have a little Grandchild dear,
Who sends to me on each new year
A valuable present:
Not costly gift from store-house bought,
But one that her own hands have wrought,
Therefore to me more pleasant.
Accept, dear child, the wish sincere,
For you much happiness this year,
And length of days be given;
Here may you act well your part,
Serving the Lord with all your heart,
And find your rest in heaven.
Jan. 1852.
LINES
TO THE MEMORY OF PATRICK KELLEY, WHO BY HIS MANY GOOD QUALITIES DURING
SOME YEARS' RESIDENCE IN MY FAMILY, GREATLY ENDEARED HIMSELF TO ME AND
MINE.
From Erin's fair Isle to this country he came,
And found brothers and sisters to welcome him here;
Though then but a youth, yet robust seemed his frame,
And life promised fair for many a long year.
A place was soon found where around the same board,
He with two of his sisters did constantly meet;
And when his day's work had all been performed,
At the _same_ fireside he found a third seat.
His faithfulness such, so true-hearted was he,
That love in return could not be denied;
_As one of the family_--he soon ceased to be
The stranger, who lately for work had applied.
Youth passed into manhood, and with it there came
New duties to fill, new plans to pursue;
But a fatal disease now seizes his frame,
And with health is his strength fast leaving him too.
From his home in the country to the city he went,
Where kind brothers procured him good medical aid;
But all was in vain--Death commissioned was sent,
And soon his remains in the cold grave were laid.
The broad waves of Atlantic lie rolling between
His brothers and sisters and parents on earth;
And never by parents may those children be seen,
Or the latter revisit the land of their birth.
But sooner or later they all must be borne
To that region of darkness from whence none return;
Oh! then may they meet on Canaan's bright shore,
An _unbroken household_ to part nevermore.
Weston, Jan. 1852.
MY S.S. CLASS.
I now will endeavor, while fresh in my mind,
My Sabbath School Class to portray;
The theme's furnished for me, I've only to find
Colors to blend, their forms to display.
And first on the canvass we'll Adeline place,
With her full and expressive dark eye;
Decision of purpose is stamped on that face,
And good scholarship too we descry.
Next in order comes Alice, with bright sunny smile,
That does one's heart good to behold;
May the sorrows of life ne'er that young spirit blight,
Nor that heart be less cheerful when old.
But who's this that we see, with that mild pensive air,
And a look so expressively kind?
It is Ann, gentle Ann, before whom we pass by,
We will add--'t would be useless in any to try
Disposition more lovely to find.
The next is a bright noble face we espy,
'Tis a boy of ten years we shall find;
There's a spice of the rogue in that merry young eye,
With good sense and good nature combined.
It's young master Alpheus--we never have found
One more punctual at school hour than he;
He's now but a lad, yet who knows when a _man_,
But a _Judge in our land_ he may be.
Next comes little Moggy, our dear little Moggy,
But before she is brought out to view,
We'll new colors select, add fresh tints to the whole,
And spread all on our pallet anew.
And now she appears in her own proper size,
Her cheeks colored by nature's warm glow;
With her full lustrous and speaking black eyes,
And rich ringlets that grace her young brow.
Walter's the last on the painting we see,
Little Walter, the youngest of all;
Look! he's repeating his lesson just now,
Mark the expression on that infant brow,
He's a _wonder_, for scholar so small.
But there's one in this grouping we look for in vain,
Whose image we often recall;
How mournfully sweet is the sound of thy name,
Dear Elbridge, the loved one of all.
Thou wert called in the freshness of morning away,
By him who all things doeth well;
The rest for brief periods are suffered to stay,
How long, we may none of us tell.
May the Holy Book studied in this Sabbath School,
Be more precious than silver or gold;
Be its doctrines received, and its precepts obeyed,
And _rich treasures_ it still will unfold.
And when one by one we shall all pass away,
To me, oh! my Father, be given
The joy that no heart upon earth can conceive,
To meet all in the kingdom of Heaven.
Weston, Feb. 17, 1852.
FOR MY GRANDSONS, EDDY AND ALLY.
I here engage
Upon this page
A picture to portray,
Of two of an age
Yet neither a sage,
But right honest hearts have they.
Each loves to play
And have his own way,
Yet I'm happy to say
They quarrel, if ever, but seldom.
Though competent quite
To maintain their own right,
And even to fight,
Yet peace to their bosom is welcome.
Both go to school,
And learn by rule
That in neither a dunce we may find;
Both read and spell
And like it well;
Thus with pleasure is profit combined.
One's eyes are black,
The other's blue;
They both have honest hearts and true,
And love each other dearly:
One's father, is brother
To the other one's mother,
So cousins german are they most clearly;
Each has a father,
And each has a mother,
And both do dearly love him;
But neither a sister,
And neither a brother,
To _play_ with, or to _plague_ him.
And here I propose,
Ere I come to a close,
A little advice to give;
To which if they heed,
They'll be better indeed,
And happier as long as they live.
Be sure to mind
Your parents kind,
And do nothing to vex or tease them;
But through each day
Heed what they say,
And strive to obey and please them.
Take not in vain
God's holy name,
Do not work,
Do not play
On God's holy day,
Nor from church stay away;
Always bear it in mind
To be gentle and kind,
And friends you will find,
And hearts to you bind,
I am sure I may venture to say.
And when you're men,
Who sees you then
I hope in you models will see,
Of _good_ and _great_,
In _Church_ and _State_,
Whose lips with your lives agree.
Weston, Feb. 1852.
FOR MY GRAND-DAUGHTERS, M. AND L.--AN ACROSTIC.
Mary and Lily--how sweet are those names,
Allied as they are to my heart and my home;
Recalling with freshness the days that are past,
Yielding buds of sweet promise for days yet to come.
Links are these names to the chain that hath bound
In fetters my heart, to which still they lay claim;
Loved ones and lovely, still close by me found,
Years past, and time present, whose names are the same.
Enshrined in this bosom, is living one now,
Still youthful and truthful, and talented too,
Though years have elapsed since she passed from our view;
E'en in Summer midst roses in beauty and bloom,
She faded away, and was borne to the tomb.
Weston, March 5, 1852.
FOR MY FRIEND MRS. R.
When writing to you, friend, a subject I'd find
In which there's both pleasure and profit combined,
And though what I've chosen may pain in review,
Yet still there's strange mingling of pleasure there too.
Then let us go back many years that are past,
And glance at those days _much too happy to last_.
I have seen thee, my friend, when around thy bright hearth
Not a seat was found vacant, but gladness and mirth
Kept high holiday there, and many a time
Were mingled in pastime my children with thine.
I've looked in again, the destroyer had come,
And changed the whole aspect of that happy home.
He entered that dwelling, and rudely he tore
From the arms of his mother, her most cherished flower.
Thy heart seemed then broken, oh! how couldst thou bear
To live in this world, and thy idol not here?
Oh! heart-stricken mother, thou didst not then know
All the bitter ingredients in thy cup of woe.
The hand of thy father that cup had prepared,
Each drop needful for thee, not one could be spared.
Ere thy first wound had healed, while bleeding and sore,
Death entered again, and a fair daughter bore
From home of her childhood, to return never more.
How painful the shock, for in striking that blow
A child, parent, sister, and wife was laid low.
Thy strength seemed unequal that shock to sustain,
But death was not satiate, he soon called again,
And tears and entreaties were powerless to save
Another dear daughter from death and the grave.
Like a fair lily when droops its young head,
With little of suffering her mild spirit fled.
She was thy namesake, to her young friends most dear;
So many thy trials, so heavy to bear,
It seemed that much longer thou couldst not survive;
_How much can the human heart bear and yet live_.
Up to this time there had always been one
Who shared in thy trials and made them his own;
Many years his strong arm had support been to thee,
The friend of thy youth, thy kind husband was he.
He's ever been with thee in weal and in woe,
But the time's just at hand when he too must go.
The bolt fell not single, it pierced the slight form
Of a child, too fragile to weather the storm;
The summons that took her dear father away
Seemed her young heart to break, she could not here stay,
And now in deep slumber they side by side lay.
I have felt, my dear friend, as I've witnessed thy grief,
How inadequate language to give thee relief;
And that _real relief_ could never be found
Except from the hand that inflicted the wound.
In the furnace of fire thou wert not alone,
For walking beside thee had ever been one,
The kindest of friends, though thou could'st not him see,
For the scales on thine eyes weighed them down heavily.
Those scales have now fallen; look up, thou canst see
That look of compassion, it's fixed upon thee.
Raise thine eyes once again, see that head crowned with thorns;
In those feet, hands, and side, see the deep bleeding wounds.
You now know full well why such suffering was borne,
'Twas for thee, and for me, and for every one
Who trusts in his merits and on him alone.
Thy day is just passed, 'tis now evening with thee,
But the faith of the Christian is given to see
The star of bright promise, amid the dark gloom
Which shall light all thy footsteps and gild the lone tomb;
And at the last day mayst thou and thine stand
An _unbroken household_ at Jesus' right hand.