“Like sacrificial wine … Are those few precious drops of Thine” Keble’s poem for the Circumcision

The Circumcision of Christ.

In whom also ye are circumcised with the circumcision made without hands.  Coloss. ii. 11.

   The year begins with Thee,
And Thou beginn’st with woe,
To let the world of sinners see
That blood for sin must flow.

   Thine infant cries, O Lord,
Thy tears upon the breast,
Are not enough—the legal sword
Must do its stern behest.

   Like sacrificial wine
Poured on a victim’s head
Are those few precious drops of Thine,
Now first to offering led.

   They are the pledge and seal
Of Christ’s unswerving faith
Given to His Sire, our souls to heal,
Although it cost His death.

   They to His Church of old,
To each true Jewish heart,
In Gospel graces manifold
Communion blest impart.

   Now of Thy love we deem
As of an ocean vast,
Mounting in tides against the stream
Of ages gone and past.

   Both theirs and ours Thou art,
As we and they are Thine;
Kings, Prophets, Patriarchs—all have part
Along the sacred line.

   By blood and water too
God’s mark is set on Thee,
That in Thee every faithful view
Both covenants might see.

   O bond of union, dear
And strong as is Thy grace!
Saints, parted by a thousand year,
May thus in heart embrace.

   Is there a mourner true,
Who fallen on faithless days,
Sighs for the heart-consoling view
Of those Heaven deigned to praise?

   In spirit may’st thou meet
With faithful Abraham here,
Whom soon in Eden thou shalt greet
A nursing Father dear.

   Would’st thou a poet be?
And would thy dull heart fain
Borrow of Israel’s minstrelsy
One high enraptured strain?

   Come here thy soul to tune,
Here set thy feeble chant,
Here, if at all beneath the moon,
Is holy David’s haunt.

   Art thou a child of tears,
Cradled in care and woe?
And seems it hard, thy vernal years
Few vernal joys can show?

   And fall the sounds of mirth
Sad on thy lonely heart,
From all the hopes and charms of earth
Untimely called to part?

   Look here, and hold thy peace:
The Giver of all good
E’en from the womb takes no release
From suffering, tears, and blood.

   If thou would’st reap in love,
First sow in holy fear:
So life a winter’s morn may prove
To a bright endless year.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s