 | Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton |  |
41
‘A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.’
No, Preacher, no!
Cease further to entreat.
I will not go
Those thorns, those flints to meet;
They prick, they bruise my knees,
They wound my feet.
Cease further to entreat.
I will not go
Those thorns, those flints to meet;
They prick, they bruise my knees,
They wound my feet.
Let me alone!
That cruel, rough-hewn smart,
That solid groan,
Christ's Cross, makes me to start;
It tears my arms, my breast,
Pierces my heart.
That cruel, rough-hewn smart,
That solid groan,
Christ's Cross, makes me to start;
It tears my arms, my breast,
Pierces my heart.
Some men are so
That from them goodness flows
Easy as glow
From star, or scent from rose;
But I, alas, am not
At all like those.
That from them goodness flows
Easy as glow
From star, or scent from rose;
But I, alas, am not
At all like those.
42
Still am I young.
What! must my youth go waste?
To taste shall tongue
Be made, and yet not taste?
Arms to embrace, yet joys
Be unembraced?
What! must my youth go waste?
To taste shall tongue
Be made, and yet not taste?
Arms to embrace, yet joys
Be unembraced?
With looks that please,
Allurement yonder stands;
And what are these
That hold me?—Woven sands
To be despised by eyes,
Brush'd off by hands!
Allurement yonder stands;
And what are these
That hold me?—Woven sands
To be despised by eyes,
Brush'd off by hands!
Thus heart rebell'd
One day, and claim'd wild range.
But I beheld
A little child. How strange
Sin's sudden death! That sight
Wrought all the change.
One day, and claim'd wild range.
But I beheld
A little child. How strange
Sin's sudden death! That sight
Wrought all the change.
| Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton | |