He pauses, still he looks afar. He still beholds the guiding star, And dreamlight of a sacred river O’er his lone eyes seems still to quiver. Sudden, as if the distant air Stripped the blue curtain from the skies, He sees prophetic nature bare,— When, as with far-off voice, he cries— ‘Lo! a face to heaven in agony gleaming, Stained of sorrow, but soil-less of sin, Sweat that is blood breaking and streaming From brows that are throbbing of anguish within,— Praying for those that do strip Him and scourge Him As a cross on His quivering shoulders they place. ’Neath its burden He sinks while they mock Him, they urge Him, They crown Him with thorns, they spit in His face. They are lifting Him, bruising Him, piercing Him, nailing Him To the cross, that is dyed in a crimson flood. See, the sun hides his head, see the vapour enveiling him, Hark, the earth and the skies in the darkness bewailing Him Who dieth for those that are shedding His blood.’