The Cross of Calvary (Kynaston)

To Cal­va­ry as­cend­ing

With Je­sus let us go

Beneath the sha­dow bend­ing

Of all His migh­ty woe:

The Chief of our sal­va­tion

Should we not fol­low nigh

With all His tri­bu­la­tion

In all His death to die?

The rear­ward’s faint way­far­er

Must stag­ger with his load

Where still the Stan­dard Bear­er

Leads up the mount­ain road:

Wrung out from life’s af­flict­ion

Death has no bi­tter cup

So sharp

but cru­ci­fix­ion

Has brimmed its sor­rows up.

Does life’s last fev­er burn­ing

Thy couch with ang­uish toss?

His racked limbs had no turn­ing

His death­bed was the cross:

Each vein of life-drops stream­ing

From sole to crown di­vine

Has

Death

for thy re­deem­ing

A deep­er pang than thine.

Art poor? in all thy toil­ing

See how the Mas­ter sped

His robe

His ves­ture’s spoil­ing

His na­ked

home­less head!

The fox his hole

the spar­row

Has where to lay her nest

Those rood beams

hard and nar­row

Are all thy Sav­ior’s rest.

Have ev­il tongued op­press­ors

Thy re­pu­ta­tion torn?

Hark

num­bered with trans­gress­ors

He bears the rob­bers’ scorn!

The sharp­ened nails as­sail­ing

Less need the opi­ate bowl

Than those fell tongues

im­pal­ing

Their ir­on in His soul.

Dost fear the pangs of dy­ing

When death has poised his dart?

See

all those ar­rows fly­ing

Are ga­thered in His heart!

A moist wind

gent­ly sigh­ing

Is now that fur­nace blast;

Death

in His bit­ter cry­ing

Thy bit­ter­ness is past.