Люси Ларком (Lucy Larcom)

The Lamb That Was Slain

I HAD a haunting thought at Easter-tide,
Musing between the twilight and the dawn,
Of our dear Lord and Friend, who, having died,
Came to His chosen where they were withdrawn:
Came, while they talked of His mysterious death,
And doubted if He had arisen indeed;
Breathed on them with His loving, living breath,
Their Master, from the grave's enthrallment freed.
"Reach hither, Thomas! see and touch my wounds!
Behold! believe that it is I!" He said.
Down unto us the wondrous word resounds; —
The death-marks on Him, yet He was not dead.
They were the sure proofs that He was alive:
The doubter's finger traced His dreadful scars:
Bears He not still those fatal tokens five
Within the unseen heavens beyond the stars?
The heart, the hands, the feet, have bled for us;
More than our common curse of death He knew:
Into His spotless nature glorious
The eternal sorrow of our sins He drew.
This is the wonder John in Patmos saw, —
The vision of a Lamb that had been slain:
Sacred to us forever is God's Law,
Writ in the awful print-marks of His pain!
Still is He touched with our infirmity;
Yearning to win us from our shame and wrong,
Still must His wounds throb, when we go astray
From His dear Father's House, where we belong.
The memory of the path for us He trod
No splendor of the heaven of heavens can dim:
By His deep human love, the Son of God
Must always draw our human hearts to Him.

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