THE PASSION.

Was ever tale of love like this? The wooing of the Spouse of blood: Who came to wed us to his bliss In those eternal years with God? Those griefless years, those wantless years, He left them—counting loss for gain— To taste the luxury of tears, And revel in the wine of pain! ’Twas sin had mixed the cup of woe From Adam passed to every lip: And none could shirk its brimming flow— For some a draught, for all a sip: Till Jesus came, athirst to save: Nor sucked content a sinless breast; But grasped the fatal cup, and gave That Mother half, then drained the rest. Enough the milk without the wine. When first the new-born Infant smiled, ’Twas merit infinite, divine, To cleanse a thousand worlds defiled. But we must take of both. And how Could love look on, nor rush to share? Or hear us moan: “Death’s darkness now: And Thou, at least, wast never there”? And so he drank our Marah dry: Then filled the cup with wine of heaven. Who would not live—with him to die? Or not have sinned—when so forgiven?