Armenia

O fair Lord Christ, when yet thy face was young In heaven, and thy witnesses were few, Humble thy Kingdom here, nor yet grace drew Emperors to the breast where Lazarus clung,— When round a dying world thy arms were flung,— Armenia first unto thy mercies flew, To the pure gospel through all ages true, And Him, whose sorrows on the world's cross hung.

She, who beheld the glorious covenant, When o'er the Flood, at the Creative Word, Bright above Ararat sprang the bow in heaven,— What to her agony will thy pity grant? For unto her through faith in thee, O Lord, The thorny crown of Christendom is given.

II

Bring, all ye nations, myrrh and frankincense, As when, with gold and many an orient gem, About the cradled child of Bethlehem Like heaven the holy stable glittered, whence Issued salvation! Pour the providence Of earthly kingdoms at the feet of them Who would a world-wide flood of sorrow stem And, Christ-like, feed the multitude immense!

Nor think Armenia only bears the Cross Through deserts wild and up her mountain-chain; But every nation climbs its Calvary, And hath its consecration; earthly loss Thousands on thousands find is heavenly gain: So the world-soul renews humanity.