Rise and depart, thou highly--favoured one,
From the sad cross, by thine adopted led:
Enough of bitter tears hath now been shed:
''Behold thy mother, and behold thy son.''
The meed of promised glory is not won,
The Prince of Life is numbered with the dead;
Each lingering hope of blessedness hath fled;
The treason hath been wrought--the dark deed done.

Thus down the steep of cruel Calvary
Passed those two holy mourners, hand in hand:
But as the brooding darkness from the land
Rose curtain--like, so comfort cheerily
Broke dawning on their hearts, and visions high
Of glory yet unshaped went dimly by.