Poems By Henry Nutcombe Oxenham. Third Edition |
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| XVIII. |
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| XX. |
| XXI. |
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| XXIII. |
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| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. | XXVIII.
THE HEAVENLY STRANGER
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| XXIX. |
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| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
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| XLIII. |
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| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
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 | Poems |  |
78
XXVIII. THE HEAVENLY STRANGER .
A stranger in the pale moonlight
Before the door He stood,
His locks are drenched with dews of night,
His raiment stained with blood.
Before the door He stood,
His locks are drenched with dews of night,
His raiment stained with blood.
A torch in nail-pierced hand He bore
No earthly sun so bright;
A stranger at the unopened door
He knocked the livelong night.
No earthly sun so bright;
A stranger at the unopened door
He knocked the livelong night.
The cruel cincture o'er His brow,
Woven of thorns, is bound,
Tears from His eyes incessant flow,
Like rain, upon the ground.
Woven of thorns, is bound,
Tears from His eyes incessant flow,
Like rain, upon the ground.
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Not for the chill night-dews He wept,
Nor for the thorny crown;
But that His own, His loved ones slept,
And left Him all alone.
Nor for the thorny crown;
But that His own, His loved ones slept,
And left Him all alone.
The sheep will hear the shepherd's cry,
The hen can call her brood,
Yet to His voice came no reply,
Shepherd, whose name is Good.
The hen can call her brood,
Yet to His voice came no reply,
Shepherd, whose name is Good.
The flowers unfold them to the sun,
Some radiant grace to win;
The livelong night that torch burnt on,
Yet all was dark within.
Some radiant grace to win;
The livelong night that torch burnt on,
Yet all was dark within.
A Stranger in the morning light,
Still at the door He stood,
His locks are drenched with dews of night,
His raiment stained with blood.
Still at the door He stood,
His locks are drenched with dews of night,
His raiment stained with blood.
| Poems | |