Calvary

Calvary (Latin: Calvariae or Calvariae locus) or Golgotha (Greek: Γολγοθᾶ, Golgothâ) was a site immediately outside Jerusalem's walls where, according to Christianity's four canonical gospels, Jesus was crucified.

Quotes

 * Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorise another Golgotha, I cannot tell.
 * Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 2


 * Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar, Wet with our Redeemer’s gore!
 * Thomas Warton, "The Crusade", Poems (New ed., 1777), p. 59


 * See where the Author of all life is dying: O fearful day! he dead, what hope of living? See where the hopes of all our lives are buying. O cheerful day! they bought, what fear of grieving? Love, love for hate, and death for life is giving: Lo, how his arms are stretched abroad to grace thee, And, as they open stand, call to embrace thee: Why stay’st thou then, my soul! O, fly, fly, thither haste thee. His radious head with shameful thorns they tear, His tender back with bloody whips they rent, His side and heart they furrow with a spear, His hands and feet with riving nails they tent, And, as to disentrail his soul they meant, They jolly at his grief, and make their game, His naked body to expose to shame, That all might come to see, and all might see that came. Whereat the Heaven put out his guilty eye That durst behold so execrable sight, And sabled all in black the shady sky, And the pale stars, struck with unwonted fright, Quenched their everlasting lamps in night: And at his birth, as all the stars Heaven had Were not enow, but a new star was made; So now, both new, and old, and all away did fade.
 * Giles Fletcher, "Calvary" (From Christ’s Triumph over Death)


 * Weeping stood his mother, sighing By the cross where Jesus, dying, Hung aloft on Calvary; Through her soul, in sorrow moaning, Bowed in grief, in spirit groaning, Pierced the sword in misery. Filled with grief beyond all others, Mother—blessed among mothers— Of the God-begotten Son! How she sorroweth and grieveth, Trembling as she thus perceiveth Dying her unspotted one! Who could there refrain from weeping, Seeing Christ’s dear mother keeping In her grief, so bitterly? Who could fail to share her anguish, Seeing thus the mother languish, Lost in woe so utterly? For the trespass of his nation She beheld his laceration, By their scourges suffering. She beheld her dearest taken, Crucified and God-forsaken, Dying by their torturing. Mother, fountain of affection, Let me share thy deep dejection, Let me share thy tenderness; Let my heart, thy sorrow feeling, Love of Christ, the Lord, revealing, Be like thine in holiness! All his stripes, O, let me feel them, On my heart forever seal them, Printed there enduringly. All his woes, beyond comparing, For my sake in anguish bearing, Let me share them willingly. By thy side let me be weeping, True condolence with him keeping, Weeping all my life with thee; Near the cross with thee abiding, Freely all thy woes dividing, In thy sorrow joined with thee. Virgin, of all virgins fairest, Let me feel the love thou bearest, Sharing all thy suffering; Let me feel the death they gave him, Crucified in shame to save them, Dying without murmuring. Let me feel their blows so crushing, Let me drink the current gushing From his wounds when crucified. By a heavenly zeal excited, When the judgment fires are lighted Then may I be justified. On the Cross of Christ relying, Through his death redeemed from dying, By his favor fortified; When my mortal frame is perished, Let my spirit then be cherished, And in heaven be glorified.
 * Jacopone da Todi, "Mater Dolorosa", Translated by E. C. Benedict


 * The stones they raise, Life’s hope decays,— With insults greeted And woes repeated, Affection gone, Woe stands alone; Who suffers this? O, tell! ’Tis He who loves so well. Lights darkened all, The stone-showers fall, The wild winds blowing, His long hair flowing, His eyes are wet, Thorns wound his feet. Who suffers this? O, tell! ’Tis He who loves so well. Perplexed the road, His breast a load; His heart is torn: The world in scorn,— The flowers are faded, The sun is shaded. Who suffers this? O, tell! ’Tis He who loves so well. What weary sighs, And weeping eyes, And plaints forbid, And glories hid, And absence drear From friends sincere. Who suffers this? O, tell! ’Tis He who loves so well. A clouded star, A journey far, A fearful doom, A day of gloom; The path mistaken,— By all forsaken. Who suffers this? O, tell! ’Tis He who loves so well.
 * Maria Doceo, "The Crucifixion", Translated by J. Bowring


 * Bound upon the accurséd tree, Faint and bleeding, who is he? By the eyes so pale and dim, Streaming blood, and writhing limb; By the flesh, with scourges torn; By the crown of twisted thorn; By the side so deeply pierced; By the baffled, burning thirst; By the drooping death-dewed brow: Son of Man, ’tis thou!’t is thou! Bound upon the accurséd tree, Dread and awful, who is he? By the sun at noonday pale, Shivering rocks, and rending veil: By earth, that trembles at his doom; By yonder saints who burst their tomb; By Eden promised, ere he died, To the felon at his side; Lord, our suppliant knees we bow: Son of God, ’tis thou! ’tis thou! Bound upon the accurséd tree, Sad and dying, who is he? By the last and bitter cry; The ghost given up in agony; By the lifeless body laid In the chamber of the dead; By the mourners come to weep Where the bones of Jesus sleep; Crucified! we know thee now: Son of Man, ’tis thou! ’tis thou! Bound upon the accurséd tree, Dread and awful, who is he? By the prayer for them that slew,— “Lord, they know not what they do!” By the spoiled and empty grave; By the souls he died to save; By the conquest he hath won; By the saints before his throne: By the rainbow round his brow; Son of God, ’tis thou! ’tis thou!
 * Henry Hart Milman, "Bound upon the Accurséd Tree"


 * O Sacred Head! now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down, Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, thy only crown; O sacred Head! what glory, What bliss, till now was thine! Yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call thee mine. O noblest brow, and dearest! In other days the world All feared when thou appearedst: What shame on thee is hurled! How art thou pale with anguish, With sore abuse and scorn; How does that visage languish, Which once was bright as morn! The blushes late residing Upon that holy cheek, The roses once abiding Upon those lips so meek, Alas! they have departed; Wan Death has rifled all! For, weak and broken-hearted, I see thy body fall. What thou, my Lord, hast suffered, Was all for sinners’ gain: Mine, mine, was the transgression, But thine the deadly pain. Lo! here I fall, my Saviour: ’Tis I deserve thy place; Look on me with thy favor, Vouchsafe to me thy grace. Receive me, my Redeemer: My Shepherd, make me thine; Of every good the fountain, Thou art the spring of mine. Thy lips with love distilling, And milk of truth sincere, With heaven’s bliss are filling The soul that trembles here. Beside thee, Lord, I ’ve taken My place,—forbid me not! Hence will I ne’er be shaken, Though thou to death be brought. If pain’s last paleness hold thee, In agony opprest, Then, then, will I enfold thee Within this arm and breast! The joy can ne’er be spoken, Above all joys beside, When in thy body broken I thus with safety hide. My Lord of life, desiring Thy glory now to see, Beside the cross expiring, I’d breathe my soul to thee. What language shall I borrow To thank thee, dearest Friend, For this, thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end! O, make me thine forever; And should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never Outlive my love to thee. And when I am departing, O, part not thou from me! When mortal pangs are darting, Come, Lord, and set me free! And when my heart must languish Amidst the final throe, Release me from mine anguish By thine own pain and woe! Be near me when I’m dying, O, show thy cross to me; And for my succor flying, Come, Lord, and set me free! These eyes new faith receiving From Jesus shall not move; For he, who dies believing, Dies safely through thy love.
 * Paul Gerhardt, "O Sacred Head! Now Wounded"


 * ’Twas the day when God’s Anointed Died for us the death appointed, Bleeding on the guilty cross. Day of darkness! day of terror! Deadly fruit of ancient error, Nature’s fall and Eden’s loss. Haste! prepare the bitter chalice! Mortal hate and mortal malice Lift the royal victim high! Like the serpent wonder-gifted, Which the prophet once uplifted, For a sinful world to die. Cruel hands with thorns have crowned him, Cruel tongues are raving round him, Jew and Gentile fiercely lower. Friends are false and foes are many: “Eli, lama sabachthani,— Father, save me from this hour.” Conscious of the deed unholy, Nature’s pulses beat more slowly, And the sun his face doth hide. Darkness wrapped the sacred city, And the earth with fear and pity Trembled when the Just One died. “It is finished!” Man of sorrows! From thy cross our frailty borrows Strength to bear and conquer thus. While, extended there, we view thee, Mighty sufferer! draw us to thee, Sufferer victorious! Not in vain for us uplifted, Man of sorrows wonder-gifted, May that sacred symbol be; High and hoar amid the ages, Guide of heroes and of sages, May it guide us still to thee! Still to thee, whose love unbounded Sorrow’s depth for us hath sounded, Perfected by conflicts sore. Honored be thy cross forever! Star that points our high endeavor Whither thou hast gone before!
 * Frederick Henry Hedge, "Mount Calvary"