 | Louise de la Valliaere and other poems |  |
55
THE DEAD CHRIST.
Three days in the sepulchre,
Silent as the patient dead,
One was lying still and fair.
Years of years! and overhead
Spun the world's cry up through air,
Fell from Heaven unanswerèd.
Silent as the patient dead,
One was lying still and fair.
Years of years! and overhead
Spun the world's cry up through air,
Fell from Heaven unanswerèd.
Was the sleep so very sweet,
In the silence, cool and dim,
Draping Him from head to feet,
Holding weary heart and limb
Moveless in the winding-sheet,
While the world cried out on Him?
In the silence, cool and dim,
Draping Him from head to feet,
Holding weary heart and limb
Moveless in the winding-sheet,
While the world cried out on Him?
Cried upon a heedless Christ,
Silent in the dead man's place,
With no mind to turn and list,
With the death upon His face,
And the lips the traitor kissed
Fair and frozen in their grace.
Silent in the dead man's place,
56
With the death upon His face,
And the lips the traitor kissed
Fair and frozen in their grace.
In His Father's house on high
It had been another thing.
The wild joy had passed him by;
For His smile the seraphs sing.
He is listening steadfastly
For the snapping of a string,
It had been another thing.
The wild joy had passed him by;
For His smile the seraphs sing.
He is listening steadfastly
For the snapping of a string,
When a human heart, unmeet
For the sorrow and the need,
Breaks a-sudden at His feet,
He will gather it with speed.
This, His harvest, wide and sweet,
Smoking flax and bruisèd reed.
For the sorrow and the need,
Breaks a-sudden at His feet,
He will gather it with speed.
This, His harvest, wide and sweet,
Smoking flax and bruisèd reed.
These are His, to have and hold;
And he waits long hours together
By the gates of carven gold
For the cries that come up hither,
From the lost ones of his fold,
Wandering in the windy weather.
And he waits long hours together
By the gates of carven gold
For the cries that come up hither,
From the lost ones of his fold,
Wandering in the windy weather.
57
Nay, the surer help to render,
This Good Shepherd leaveth oft
His fair Heaven, nor rues its splendour,
If he hears the bleating soft
Of a young lamb, weak and tender,
Strayed to some far vale or croft.
This Good Shepherd leaveth oft
His fair Heaven, nor rues its splendour,
If he hears the bleating soft
Of a young lamb, weak and tender,
Strayed to some far vale or croft.
Who hath trod the ways of pain
Hath not met Him in the gloom,
Coming swiftly through the rain?
Hath not prayed to see Him come?
Many a weary head hath lain
On His breast and found it home.
Hath not met Him in the gloom,
Coming swiftly through the rain?
Hath not prayed to see Him come?
Many a weary head hath lain
On His breast and found it home.
Who shall cry, and He not hear?
When the night comes down in dread,
Lo! He standeth very near.
“Child of Mine, be not afraid;
In Mine arms you shall not fear,
In My hands your hands are laid.”
When the night comes down in dread,
Lo! He standeth very near.
“Child of Mine, be not afraid;
In Mine arms you shall not fear,
In My hands your hands are laid.”
If He turn His face away,
Never answering a word,
When for some ill boon we pray,
And his lips with pain be stirred,
Blessed be His Name for aye,
For the prayers He hath not heard!
Never answering a word,
When for some ill boon we pray,
And his lips with pain be stirred,
58
For the prayers He hath not heard!
We shall find these otherwhere,
Garnered up by love divine;
Some day lips too dry for prayer,
Hands too weak to pour the wine,
Shall be given to drink and bear
Vintage of an older vine.
Garnered up by love divine;
Some day lips too dry for prayer,
Hands too weak to pour the wine,
Shall be given to drink and bear
Vintage of an older vine.
But the earth sore travailing
While the Christ was lying dead!
Not a bird might dare to sing,
Gloomed a lurid sun and red,
Day and night the thundering
Of the Lord's wrath overhead.
While the Christ was lying dead!
Not a bird might dare to sing,
Gloomed a lurid sun and red,
Day and night the thundering
Of the Lord's wrath overhead.
And the world's cry, desolate,
Like a sad grey, wounded bird,
Beating wild at Heaven's gate,
And One speaking not a word;
Like a dead King keeping state,
With his tender heart unstirred.
Like a sad grey, wounded bird,
Beating wild at Heaven's gate,
And One speaking not a word;
Like a dead King keeping state,
With his tender heart unstirred.
| Louise de la Valliaere and other poems | |