At midnight, in a dungeon lone,
An aged female knelt in prayer;
But oh, her low, sepulchral tone
Seemed fraught with anguish and despair.
"My son," she cried, "to morrow's sun
Must witness your disgraceful death;
O, seek a dying Saviour's love,
E'en with your expiring breath.
The sun of Righteousness has risen,
And o'er my path shed golden light,
And shone upon the narrow way,
That ever followed leads aright.
And I have followed to the cross,
On which a dying Saviour hung,
Bemoaned my sins with weeping eyes,
Besought his grace with suppliant tongue.
He witness'd all my sorrowing tears,
And heard my suppliant prayer in Heaven;
Then sweetly spake with cheering voice,
"Daughter, thy sins are all forgiven."
Prostrate in dust before His throne,
My heart's pure worship then I gave;
Sweetly my ransomed spirit sang,
Jesus Christ has power to save."
Then spake the son:--"Talk not to me,
I heeded not weak woman's tears;
But when I sail'd upon the sea,
I quickly silenc'd all their fears.
Free was my trade, my arm was free,
And human blood I freely spilt;
And many an aged breast like thine,
Has sheath'd my dagger to its hilt.
Our blood-red pennon floated free,
Our blood-stained deck its witness gave;
Blood, human blood, was on our hands,
And mingled oft with ocean's wave."
Shudd'ring, the mother cried: "My son,
Though you are steeped in human gore,
There is a fountain filled with blood,
That can your purity restore.
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