 | Forest Songs and Other Poems |  |
52
THE CHRIST OF THE TITI-SEE.
1
Poor pale Christ that hang'st there dumbly,Spear and sponge thy cross beside,
With thy crown of thorns upon thee,
And thy blood-streams never dried!
2
Wherefore comest thou to haunt me,With thy wide wounds gaping red?
All last night thy dolorous vision
Glared at me beside my bed.
3
With that look of mute upbraidingIn thy ghastly face of pain,
Dost thou ask, “Have I, the Saviour,
Died for this bad world in vain?”
53
4
Eighteen centuries and three-quartersSince that world, O Blessed One,
Heard thy death-cry, “It is finished!”
Criest Thou now, “Is it begun?”
| Forest Songs and Other Poems | |