The very torturers paused
  To help Him on His way.

"Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense
With medicined sleep."—O awful in Thy woe!
  The parching thirst of death
  Is on Thee, and Thou triest

The slumb'rous potion bland, and wilt not drink:
Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man
  With suicidal hand
  Putting his solace by:

But as at first Thine all-pervading look
Saw from Thy Father's bosom to the abyss
  Measuring in calm presage
  The infinite descent;

So to the end, though now of mortal pangs
Made heir, and emptied of Thy glory, awhile,
  With unaverted eye
  Thou meetest all the storm.

Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all;
And rather wouldst Thou wreathe with strong pain,
  Than overcloud Thy soul,
  So clear in agony,

Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time
O most entire and perfect sacrifice,
  Renewed in every pulse
  That on the tedious Cross

Told the long hours of death, as, one by one,
The life-strings of that tender heart gave way;
  E'en sinners, taught by Thee,
  Look Sorrow in the face,

And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiled
By false kind solaces, and spells of earth:-
  And yet not all unsoothed;
  For when was Joy so dear,

As the deep calm that breathed, "Father, forgive,"
Or, "Be with Me in Paradise to-day?"
  And, though the strife be sore,
  Yet in His parting breath