Arrows dipped in poison flew
From the fatal bow;
And they pierced my bosom through,
And they laid me low.
Every nerve to anguish strung,
In distress I cried:
And the waste around me rung,
But no voice replied.
“Cruel was the hand,” I said,
“That could draw the bow:
Curses rest upon the head
Of my heartless foe!”
Turning straightway at the sound,
In the tangled wood,
Pale, and bearing many a wound,
There a stranger stood.
Mournfully on me he gazed,
Not a word he said:
But one hand the stranger raised,
And I saw it bled.
Blood was flowing from his side
And his thorn-pierced brow;
“Who has wounded thee?” I cried,
And he answered, “Thou!”
Then I knew the Stranger well,
And with sobs and tears
Prostrate at his feet I fell,
But he soothed my fears.
“Thou hast wounded me, but live,—
And my blessing take:
Henceforth wilt thou not forgive
Freely for my sake?”
Resting in his fond embrace,
Eased of every woe,—
Then I said, with smiling face,
“Jesus, bless my foe!”