The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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May 21
THE AGONY |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
172
May 21 THE AGONY
“It pleased the Lord to bruise him; he hath put him to grief.”
—Isa. liii. 10.
Not only man, His friends that idly slept
Nor watched one little hour,
But all the sweets of nature which He kept
Fresh with His shine and shower,
Seem now against Him and deny the Hand
Which painted every hue,
As if in serried hostile lines they stand
When they do not pursue;
Nay, ghostly trees as prisoning bar and bolt
Seem drawing death-like round,
And still brute matter stirs in dumb revolt
On that grim battle-ground.
The very sandals, with which Christ is shod,
Feel fires beneath that would destroy their God.
Nor watched one little hour,
But all the sweets of nature which He kept
Fresh with His shine and shower,
Seem now against Him and deny the Hand
Which painted every hue,
As if in serried hostile lines they stand
When they do not pursue;
Nay, ghostly trees as prisoning bar and bolt
Seem drawing death-like round,
And still brute matter stirs in dumb revolt
On that grim battle-ground.
The very sandals, with which Christ is shod,
Feel fires beneath that would destroy their God.
But this were nought to many-centuried sin,
The troubles of all time
Which are and are not His, nor here begin
To add their curse sublime.
Wherever now in dreadful thought He turns
Some evil thing steps near,
And not a spot throughout broad Space but burns
A hell of guilty fear.
He sees a shadow in the cleanest life,
And in the cloistered saint
Shut out from earth and common sordid strife
Some secret leprous taint.
O each vile feeling falls, as if it trod
Down on the Heart of the Dethronèd God.
The troubles of all time
Which are and are not His, nor here begin
To add their curse sublime.
Wherever now in dreadful thought He turns
Some evil thing steps near,
And not a spot throughout broad Space but burns
A hell of guilty fear.
He sees a shadow in the cleanest life,
And in the cloistered saint
Shut out from earth and common sordid strife
Some secret leprous taint.
O each vile feeling falls, as if it trod
Down on the Heart of the Dethronèd God.
| The Prisoner of Love | |