Luke Xix. 10. Poem by Mary Anne Browne

The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.


HE cometh not in earthly pomp and state;
No guards, no princely train,
Such as a mortal's honours would sustain,
Around His footsteps wait.
But in the manger, with the Undefiled,
His mother leaning near, He lies, a passive child.

A child in form, a very babe indeed,
The house of clinging clay
Veiling the God, whom angels to obey,
Fly with the lightning's speed.
Oh, Meek and Holy! what hath brought thee here,
From the pure radiance of thine own celestial sphere?

There was a gem of priceless light and worth,
Out of the stores of Heaven,
In mercy as a crowning jewel given
Unto the youthful earth;
But now, alas ! a most unholy spot
Upon the shattered diamond spreads a widening blot.

And Thou art come to seek in this drear waste
The treasure once thine own;
Alas, alas! its purest light is gone,
Its heavenly stamp effaced.
It is not fit those fragments, stained and dim,
Should meet again the gaze of myriad Seraphim!

Wilt Thou not seize those ruined gems— the souls
Who scorned thy heavenly light,
And cast them down for ever from thy sight,
Where Sorrow's ocean rolls;
Punish at once the sin, and hide the shame,
That they have striven to bring upon thy honoured name?

No—blessed Saviour! Thou art merciful!
Thou bath'st them in the flood
Of thine own sacrifice, thy precious blood,
And they no more are dull;
But purified, and calm, and clearly bright,
They shine in Heaven again with soft and chastened light.