Here you will find the Poem Good Friday of poet John Keble
Is it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawned on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power For comfort than an angel's mirth? That to the Cross the mourner's eye should turn Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn? Sooner than where the Easter sun Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run, "Who died to heal, is risen to save?" Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends? Yet so it is: for duly there The bitter herbs of earth are set, Till tempered by the Saviour's prayer, And with the Saviour's life-blood wet, They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, Soft as imprisoned martyr's deathbed calm. All turn to sweet--but most of all That bitterest to the lip of pride, When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near. Then like a long-forgotten strain Comes sweeping o'er the heart forlorn What sunshine hours had taught in vain Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn, As in all lowly hearts he suffers still, While we triumphant ride and have the world at will. His pierced hands in vain would hide His face from rude reproachful gaze, His ears are open to abide The wildest storm the tongue can raise, He who with one rough word, some early day, Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away. But we by Fancy may assuage The festering sore by Fancy made, Down in some lonely hermitage Like wounded pilgrims safely laid, Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed, That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest. O! shame beyond the bitterest thought That evil spirit ever framed, That sinners know what Jesus wrought, Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed - That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, Should wince and fret at this world's little loss. Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry, Let not Thy blood on earth be spent - Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie, Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent, Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parched earth on April skies. Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, O let my heart no further roam, 'Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears. Long since--O call Thy wanderer home; To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.