Behold your King

Behold your King ! Though the moonlight steals
Through the silvery sprays of the olive tree,
No star-gemmed sceptre or crown it reveals,
In the solemn shade of Gtehsemane.
Only a form of prostrate grief,
Fallen, crushed, like a broken leaf!
Oh, think of His sorrow ! that we may know
The depth of love in the depth of woe.

Behold your King ! Is it nothing to you,
That the crimson tokens of agony
From the kingly brow must fall like dew,
Through the shuddering shades of Gethsemane ?
Jesus Himself, the Prince of Life,
Bows in mysterious mortal strife ;
Oh, think of His sorrow ! that we may know
The unknown love in the unknown woe.

Behold your King, \vith His sorrow crowned,
Alone, alone in the valley is He !
The shadows of death are gathering round,
And the Cross must follow Gethsemane.
Darker and darker the gloom must fall,
Filled is the Cup, He must drink it all !
Oh, think of His sorrow ! that we may know
His wondrous love in His wondrous woe.

It is a remarkable coincidence that 'Behold your King, 'and 'He
Suffered,' are the closing poems in F. R. H.'s book, written in pencil,