Born: 1815, Glas­gow, Scot­land.

Died: Ja­nu­ary 30, 1888.

Buried: Kil­mar­nock Ce­me­te­ry, Kil­mar­nock, East Ayr­shire, Scot­land.



Marion was the daugh­ter of Da­vid Aird and Mar­ga­ret John­ston.

She moved to Kil­mar­nock by 1846.



The Man of Sorrows

Who is He that purple wearing,
All the taunts of malice bearing—
Silent ’neath the mocker’s scorn?
As a lamb to slaughter leading,
Bound and wounded, faint and bleeding,
Pale and weary—sorrow-worn;
Scourged and smitten, uncomplaining,
Dust and gore His garments staining—
See! they pierce with thorns His brow;
Fainting, ’neath the cross now bending,
Tears with Salem’s daughters blending!
Son of Man ! ’tis Thou! ’tis Thou.

Hear our sins round Calvary crying,
Crucify Him! Crucify Him!
See! they smite Him on the head.
King of Jews they, mocking, hail Him,
Naked to the tree they nail Him,
’Neath our hands the Sinless bled.
Rugged nails His hands have riven,
Hung ashamed ’twixt earth and Heav­en—
Blameless, numbered with the worst.
O’er His pale face gore-drops streaming,
Frownless still, with love still beaming,
’Neath the wrath of God accurst.

Hark! He prays, while agonizing,
For the murderers who despise Him!
Sinners! whence that anguished cry?
Sore reproach My heart is breaking,
God! My God! hast Thou forsaken
Thy Belovèd—why? oh! why?

Sin alone could thus accuse Him,
Though it pleased the Lord to bruise Him,
All our sins were on Him laid;
For transgression was He stricken,
For the sheep the shepherd smitten
Thus the full atonement made.

It is finished! hear Him crying—
Meekly bows His head, and dying,
Thus He justice satisfies;
With His blood each promise sealing,
Wondrous love to man revealing,
God His covenant ratifies.
Trembling nature quails in thunder,
Heav’n, ashamed, grows black with wonder:
See! the sun hath veiled His face!
Hear, the awe-struck heathen crying,
Is the God of nature dying?
Hath th’Eternal left His place?

Heav’n and hell around are pressing,
Man’s eternal curse or blessing,
Dead—the Lord of Life to see.
Helpless as an infant sleeping,
Friends—how few! around Him weeping,
Loose Him from the bloody tree;
Weeping women o’er Him bending,
Trembling fear their bosoms rending,
Mourn th’eclipse of Glory’s sun;
While in linen cloths they wind Him,
With the cords of death they bind Him
Can these hold the Holy One?

Arch-apostate! though you slay Him,
In the dust of death you lay Him,
Thou hast bruised His heel at length!
See His garments! O! how glorious!
Travelling in His might victorious—
Edom! He hath spoiled thy strength.
Father—God! oh! what could move Him,
Sons of Adam thus to love them,
Thus to give the Son to death?
’Tis His will, and Thou hast done it,
Take the kingdom, Thou hast won it,
Even so,
the Father saith.

Salem—see thy waning glory,
Clouds of doom are gathering o’er thee—
Now thy fallen shrine grows dark;
Stars on Zion-hill de­clin­ing,
Tell the promised Sun is shin­ing!
Hark! they echo—we de­part.
See, the temple veil is rend­ing!
See, the rising God ascend­ing!
King of Glory, enter in.
Thou the gates of brass hast ri­ven,
Paved a way from earth to Heav­en—
Pardon’s won for darkest sin.

To the inner shrine re­turn­ing,
With unceasing incense burn­ing,
Blood-bought mercy to pro­claim;
Lift the scepter, reign for ev­er—
Worthy is the Lamb for ev­er—
Worthy is the Lamb once slain.
Sacrifice, by God ap­point­ed,
Rich with gifts for men anoint­ed,
Shadows melt in per­fect day;
Prophet, Priest, and Me­di­at­or,
Man-Redeemer, God, Cre­at­or—
Aaron, cast thy robes away.

Christ is mighty to de­li­ver,
Mercy is built up for ev­er
In the broken law ful­filled;
His right hand the curse re­mov­èd,
God well pleased in the Be­lov­èd—
Sinai’s peals in Calvary stilled.
In the great pro­pi­ti­ation,
Sin condemned, proclaim sal­va­tion,
Sinner, here your sentence see.
See the debt your sins had spot­ted,
By His Holy arm there blot­ted,
Nailed upon th’accursèd tree.

See the cleansing fountain open,
In His body bruised and brok­en,
Pardon through atoning blood;
Righteousness by faith re­veal­ing,
Here for every wound is heal­ing,
Peace proclaimed ’twixt man and God.

From Marion P. Aird
The Home of the Heart, 1846



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