Pursing his traitor lips he onward went, The Apostle, with those harsh official men - All on one cruel baleful thought intent, To hunt the Lamb up from His sheltering glen, O cruel conclave! where those murderers met; O vile night-market! where our Lord was sold Among the sad gray olives, in His sweat, Just risen from that awful prayer; behold! They lead Him forth, the Victim long foretold To climb, like Isaac, up the fated hill: And so God wrought Redemption - fold in fold With hate and guile He wrapt His holy will, Yet left that will still holy - nor approved The sin He worked with, nor its curse removed. |