(PSALM xlv. 13).
THE Dochter o’ the King! for she’s wedded to His Son,
She’s crooned wi’ royal trophies which He for her has won;
Though bendin’ at His fitstule, [footstool] she’s nearest to the throne,
She’s kneelin’ whaur the Victor’s hosanna-leaves are strewn.
She’s no’ o’ royal bluid, nor o’ patriarchal line,
And naething in hersel’ could e’er prompt a love divine;
An enemy o’ God, she was sairly scarred wi’ sin,
Her ootward beauty gane, and her heart a’ foul within.
But in ages lang gane by He lookit frae above,
An’ widna let her vileness come atween Him an’ His love;
An’ as she cudna help hersel’, He bude [must] to do it a,
He bore her sin and died for her, to busk [dress] her oot sae braw.
The croon o’ starry gems that her royal broo adorns,
Was gifted by the Victor wha wore the croon o’ thorns;
The bonnie, bonnie raiment, as white as drifted sna,
Was unco [very] foul and puir-like till Jesus made it braw.
The Bride has had a wee bit o’ tribulation, tae,
Afore she reached the kintra [country] o’ everlasting day;
For when she plighted troth to Him upon this earth aneath,
She vowed to follow onward through sufferin’ and death.
He bore the sairest wecht, ye ken, and He gaed a’ alane;
She only kissed the red cup that He had a’ tae drain,
She only followed on whaur her Lord had made a road
Frae Earth wi’ a’ its waes [sorrows] to the Palace Hame o’ God.
Oh! when she saw His face then the glory was sae bricht
That hers, like ripplin’ water, juist mirrored back the licht;
She cudna look upon Him, wham she had lo’ed unseen,
Without His glory brichtening’ the chaumbers [chambers] o’ her een.
I canna tell the glory—it’s only seen abune [above],
Where she’s clearer than the sun and fairer than the mune [moon];
For my een are gettin’ dazed wi’ keekin’ [peeping] on afore,
An’ lookin’ at the radiance that’s glintin’ [gleaming] thro’ the door.
Sae I’m sittin’ doon to wait at the fit o’ the Cross,
An’ I am ettlin’ [expecting] Him tae rid me frae a’ earthly dross;
I’m lookin’ for His waddin’ day to come verra sune,
An’ then the guesses at His glory will be forever dune.
* This poem appeared many years ago in the Magazine, and is reproduced for the benefit of those who may never have seen it. The Scottish words are explained within square brackets.—Editor.