The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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May 20
THE SOLITUDE OF GOD |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
170
May 20 THE SOLITUDE OF GOD
“O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me:
nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.”—St. Matt.
xxvi. 39.
O awful Sight that bids us veil the face
And darkly look through tears,
To see our Lord thus left alone in space
To burdens of all years;
Self-exiled from His Father for a while,
Because He loved so well,
As if the very Heaven forgot to smile
And earth tolled its last knell.
Homeless in His own world, denied the least,
Until His people found
Among their tenderer mercies to the beast
Room for His burial-ground.
O could men fashion a more cruel rod,
For their poor suffering solitary God?
And darkly look through tears,
To see our Lord thus left alone in space
To burdens of all years;
Self-exiled from His Father for a while,
Because He loved so well,
As if the very Heaven forgot to smile
And earth tolled its last knell.
Homeless in His own world, denied the least,
Until His people found
Among their tenderer mercies to the beast
Room for His burial-ground.
O could men fashion a more cruel rod,
For their poor suffering solitary God?
Behold, the Maker by His creatures left
And to the utmost tried,
Of roof and rest and friend and faith bereft
Whether He lived or died;
Deserted by His dearest, torn and tost
By every mortal throe—
'Mid silence, doom, and growing darkness lost
In that grey Garden woe.
The stones arise and strike His wounded Feet,
And the dim olive bough
Forsakes its use, as if it were more sweet
To buffet His dear Brow.
The very worms fret through the crumbling clod,
And crawl contemptuous round the Dying God.
And to the utmost tried,
Of roof and rest and friend and faith bereft
Whether He lived or died;
Deserted by His dearest, torn and tost
By every mortal throe—
'Mid silence, doom, and growing darkness lost
In that grey Garden woe.
The stones arise and strike His wounded Feet,
171
Forsakes its use, as if it were more sweet
To buffet His dear Brow.
The very worms fret through the crumbling clod,
And crawl contemptuous round the Dying God.
The moon looks down in cold relentless glare
Upon the Lord of Love,
And even the rhythmic stars appear to stare
In scorn from bliss above;
The message of the wind so fair and fresh
Seems to afflict him more,
It falls like lashes on the quivering flesh
Which bleeds at every pore.
The merry bubble of the distant brook
Sounds mocking to His ear,
And shakes the Blessèd Form that never shook
In any human fear.
And the bright flowers, that burst the scented sod,
Bring altars but no incense to their God.
Upon the Lord of Love,
And even the rhythmic stars appear to stare
In scorn from bliss above;
The message of the wind so fair and fresh
Seems to afflict him more,
It falls like lashes on the quivering flesh
Which bleeds at every pore.
The merry bubble of the distant brook
Sounds mocking to His ear,
And shakes the Blessèd Form that never shook
In any human fear.
And the bright flowers, that burst the scented sod,
Bring altars but no incense to their God.
| The Prisoner of Love | |