"Lord, whither goest Thou?"

Blood flowed throughout the stately city,
The cruel Caesar's haughty home ;
Men perished, and there was no pity,
Nor rescue, in imperial Rome.

It was when Nero's wrath was sorest,
And death and sorrow marked his way,
When, like the wild beast of the forest,
He revelled o'er his quivering prey.

Then Christian limbs were bowed and blended,
Prostrate where peopled pathways meet ;
Coated with slime, till pain was ended
By the slow march of trampling feet ;

Or smeared around with pitch for burning,
Their fires along the pavement spread,
Torches to light the crowds, returning
From some fierce game where Christians bled.

Now blessed blood that day was sweeter
Than the red stream of lowlier gore ;
So shall the veins of good Saint Peter
Slake the fierce Gentiles' thirst once more.

His guilt — that he the blind and cripple
Had touched until they saw and trod ;
His crime — that hosts of Roman people
Sought at his voice the Christians' God.

Then fastly came the woeful warning
Where the meek Church had met to sigh ;
The place, the doom, the fatal morning
When Simon, Jonah's son, shall die.

So many a loving accent pleaded —
" Baffle with Nero's wrath, and flee ;
Thine arm, thy living voice, are needed
The succour of God's Church to be."

Their secret wish his own resembled,
Forth from the gate his footsteps fare :
Whom did he see, that thus he trembled ?
O blessed Jesu ! Thou wert there !

" Now whither goest Thou, dear Master? "
The Apostle said, with kindling eye.
" Once more to brook the old disaster :
Again upon My Cross to die.

" To die for those who would have perished
Had they been left to love like thine :
The flock thou oughtest to have cherished,
The lambs and sheep so dearly Mine."

Thus said the Lord, and forthwith vanished,
E'en as He did in days of yore ;
And he, the Apostle, turned and banished
The fear of death for evermore.