The Storm of Sorrow Howls Around

The storm of sor­row howls around

That bleak and cheer­less tree

Where hangs the Suf­fer­er

throned and crowned—

The cross of Cal­va­ry.

A weight of woe that head bows down

Deep ang­uish racks His heart;

Face

hands

and feet

red tor­rents drown;

Those wounds—how wild their smart.

He weeps

He prays

He cries that last

And wild­ly wail­ing cry;

Now through His mo­ther’s heart hath passed

The sword of ago­ny.

He dies—hills

mount­ains

rocks and graves

Are riv­en

rent the main;

Yea

rock the cliffs

fields

floods and waves;

The veil is rent in twain.

Why then are our hard hearts un­rent?

When sun

and moon

and stars

Wail sad­ly

with the world’s la­ment:

What sin our sor­row bars?

Wail

wail

for grief’s dark hour is this

Young men and maid­ens

wail;

Anoint

and wash

and wipe

and kiss

Those feet so dead­ly pale.

Anoint

and wash with tears

and wipe

With love’s long flow­ing tress

That Lamb of Love—whose eve­ry stripe

Doth purge our guil­ti­ness.

Oh! then

the peace and joy of all

Jesu

our life and bliss—

In yon bright land our co­ron­al

Be Thou our light in this.