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Paschal Song

Sedulius, tr. Sigerson, 1922; selections

Beyond the placid Jordan’s sands, He stoodWhere, followed by a nameless multitudeOf human…

Beyond the placid Jordan’s sands, He stood
Where, followed by a nameless multitude
Of human Ills, He, still compassionate,
The stricken healed and sent them home, elate.

For never to those hoping in His ruth
He finds it hard to give, who renders smooth
The rough, and straight the crooked ways.

In sooth
He does, Himself, what Nature does deny.
For, as the Camel through the Needle’s Eye
Can never pass, even such would be the fate
Of rich men venturing the Narrow Gate
Had not the Lord of all (the Primal Cause
Who rules by law, yet uncontrolled by laws,
With whom to will is to accomplish, He
All things beholding, whom no eye may see),
Declared His power upon all things that are
Impossible to men, and lowered the bar
That stops the burthened Rich. For even they
Do well with riches who their riches lay
In Heaven’s store, where rust shall not corrode
Nor busy moth destroy, nor their abode
Shall robbers break. Who feeds the hungerèd
Gives thirst to drink, receives th’ unshelter’d head,
The naked clothes, comforts the sick, and these
In prison bound—who all necessities
Helps well, will for himself his substance sure
In Heaven place:—in giving to the poor,
Beneath that semblance he to Christ shall give,
So, losing, gain: and make the dead thing live.

Then one, a woman came, all blemishèd,
Who bowed unto the ground her humble head
And suppliant clasped His feet; she washed them fair
With tears incessant, and, with loosened hair
She wiped them dry; nor ceased the while to kiss
And them with fragrant oils anoint—till this
Her happy doom He spoke, whose hand still went
To heal the bruised and raise the penitent:—
“Thy faith hath saved thee, Woman, go in peace.”

Thus says the Lord. Confess and thou shalt cease
The carking ill; the great cure this, indeed:
Who hides, augments, the wounds that inward bleed.
He fosters hurts who will not bare for cure.
Yet see how one, long sullied, is made pure,
Cleansed by the tresses, when washed clean by tears.

He came once more to Bethany, and there
Found Lazarus, cold within the sepulchre: Four days had closed since first the stone was
laid
O’er him, now one of the decaying Dead.
His sisters wept, and all the people moan,
He wept, th’ Omnipotent!—as man alone,
Not God,—through all that flesh which was to die,
He showed as friend His grief with tear and sigh,
As God his majesty.

Why, Mary, weep?
Why, Martha, stay thy faith? From caverned deep
Ye doubt that one may rise through Him, by whom
Unnumbered hosts of Earth shall leave the tomb?
So when the loud Voice of the Lord was heard:
“O Lazarus, come forth,” all broken, bared,
In mighty fear fell Tartarus; the sound
Oped all of Erebus the dark profound,
And lethal Chaos cowed.

Death’s rigid law
Was broke. The Soul resumed its Home again,
The Corpse rose Living to the eyes of men—
As though New-born, from out the sepulchre,
Himself His Offspring posthumous, and Heir!

Contemning all the passing pomp of Time
To show His power He came, not borne sublime
With mortal pomp, on chariot’s flashing speed
Through rolling dust, nor set on lofty steed
With clinking collar bright, and purple fold,
And tossing head that champs the blood-wet gold.
The Ruler’s pomp a lowly ass sufficed
With service slow, but nobler, bearing Christ—
The burthen marvellous—and not unfit
Companion of that ox which stood with it
In Bethlem worshipping.

Behold the crowd
Strew garments in the path: Hosannas loud
Arise. Ye Gentiles! say, had ever king
On earth such glory?—palms for welcoming
With leafy boughs, and eager crowds who sing
Celestial hymns?—save Christ, our Lord alone,
Who with His Father rules from Heaven’s high throne!¹

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