THAT cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul;

I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chord

When breaks the master chord of some great harp;

My heart responsive answers, "Why?" O Lord.

O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns!

O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there!

Wert thou forsaken in thy deadly strife?

Then canst thou pity me in my despair.

Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with thee

To that still sepulchre where thou didst rest;

Lay it in the fair linen's spicy folds,

As a dear mother lays her babe to rest.

I am so worn, so weary, so o'erspent,

To lie with thee in that calm trance were sweet;

The bitter myrrh of long-remembered pain

May work in me new strength to rise again.

This dark and weary mystery of woe,

This hopeless struggle, this most useless strife,--

Ah, let it end! I die with thee, my Lord,

To all I ever hoped or wished from life.

I die with thee: thy fellowship of grief,

Thy partnership with mortal misery,

The weary watching and the nameless dread,--

Let them be mine to make me one with thee.

Thou hast asked, "Why?" and God will answer thee,

Therefore I ask not, but in peace lie down,

For the three days of mystery and rest,

Till comes the resurrection and the crown.