The Fateful Hour

  His hour was not yet come:
  And all the hate of scornful men,
  And all the plans of malice born,
  And all the power of Hell opposed,
  Could nought avail —
  His hour was not yet come.

  His hour was not yet come:
  And so in peace the Saviour moved,
  With heart in sweet commune with God
  Unruffled by Satanic storm
  That o’er Him broke —
  His hour was not yet come.

  But when the hour was come
  Calmly He sat with those He loved
  And spread the Eucharistic feast,
  Speaking of love supremely proved
  In death itself —
  Now that the hour was come.

  And since the hour was come
  With force unchecked the tempest broke,
  And all Hell’s legions sprang to arms.
  Out from His own the traitor slunk
  To sell his Lord.
  For now the hour was come.

  At last the hour was come:
  And the dread outburst of God’s wrath
  ’Gainst all the sinfulness of men
  Was borne in love supreme, divine,
  By Jesus then:
  The hour of hours had come.

  Another hour is come:
  He speaks with power as Son of God,
  And all who hear, though dead in sin,
  Are quickened by that mighty voice
  And live anew.
  The gospel hour is come.

W.H. Westcott.

S.T. 1918