When He was come near, He beheld the city, and wept over it. Luke 19:41
Words: Charles L. Ford, Lyra Christi (London: Houlston and Sons, 1874).
If you know where to get a good photo of Ford or Walton (head-and-shoulders, at least 200×300 pixels), would you ?
O hadst thou known, in this day,
The things belonging to thy peace!
He spake, and wept. Adown the way
The rude procession’s ranks increase:
With shout and song, as on He rode,
Children and men their garments strowed.
And see, that host His pathway lines
With boughs, as in triumphal hour:
Some poor ephemeral splendor shines,
Some hint of sublunary power,
For Him who naught of grandeur needs
From shouting hosts or prancing steeds.
Was this a time for mist of tears,
When sunshine brightened o’er His way,
When pæn-praises filled His ears,
And Salem seemed at last to pay
Her homage due, erewhile refused—
Why wept He as He paused and mused?
What were a people’s shouts to Him?
Earth’s proudest pomp, her kingliest crown?
He saw the light of Israel dim,
Twice dead the blossom of renown;
And hollow rites for service paid
To Him who claims the heart He made.
And thus, if fancy dare explore
The thoughts that stirred His soul to weep,
Sad voices, as from some far off shore
Rolls the low murmur of the deep,
Came o’er Him—all the future vast
Blent with long echoes of the past.
“Bright as a star in heaven’s own blue,
Light of the lands, I saw thee shine;
Kings from afar thy brightness knew,
The gifts of Sheba decked thy shrine:
Thou were a royal stone and gem
Set on My heart, Jerusalem!
“I see thee as thou sat’st of yore,
A queen in beauty; but thy gold
Is tarnished; lovers come no more
To seek thee; from thy hand hath rolled
Thy scepter, laid in dust; and now
The conqueror’s brand is on thy brow.
“But he who dares thy doom portray,
Self-doomed, thy sacrifice expires;
Build, as of old, their tombs ye slay;
Fill up the measure of your sires;
Nor deem thy blackest crime shall stem
Earth’s tide of woes, Jerusalem!
“But woe to her who scorns her Lord,
The land that crucifies her king!
I see the alien armies poured
Around her—hear the anguish ring!
Your house lies desolate—ye roam
A byword, yearning for your home.
I go where sits in glory crowned
Each herald of the Lord ye slew;
And Gentile tongues His praise shall sound
In seats of joy prepared for you:
Thy name, thy place, is given to them,
My bride, My new Jerusalem!
But hark! the thrilling shout, more nigh,
Peals on the air with joyous glee;
They chant His mighty works, and cry,
This is the Christ of Galilee!
In lowliest state He moves along,
And Salem’s gate receives the throng.