Who's Heart

Who’s heart is this, a bended thing,
What dear does hold this beating wing,
Of breath and bone and feelings told,
Which heaven alone can say did mold,

What wonders hither to come at last,
That shadows even darkness past,
And walk on streams of silken grace,
Where men may find redemption placed,
In strands of red, laced on pale,
And tears run free from him who wailed,

“Father dear, where hast thou gone,
Leave me not this ghastly song,
Take my cup, let me be free,
Set my heart to liberty,”

But heaven turned upon its gift,
Hell alone saw cold the rift,
Of God made flesh and cast asunder,
Hung high by sins of men who wonder,
“What love is this, that he would die,
If only my will was set to try,”

Yet men would dare not touch such sorrow,
For fear lest they meet grim tomorrows,
And their breath be short of ill-gotten gain,
Whilst they suffered blameless pain,

“Yet not my will,” he cried aloud,
“Let yours be done before this crowd,
And I shall pass with grace as can,
Be afforded forgotten man,”
And breathing last let fell his head,
Doom had struck the Savior dead,

And evil laughed and sang and danced,
For here at last they were emanced,
From command and fear of holy power,
Surely heaven did loath this hour,

But grace works not by mortal mind,
And too soon did darkness loose its find,
For but three were the days he stayed,
The gatekeepers lax in their guarded ways,
And out he walked, a glory divine,
Whose heart still beating was made to shine,

Surely this heart doth beat for me,
How else explain such misery,
Given to one who hung alone,
That for my sins he could atone,
And I be free from fear and wonder,
To eternity which I was sundered,
But now am given to see and hold,
Surely this heart heaven did mold,