01.01.2011, 13:00
THE PALM-WILLOW
I read the Gospel-record of those cries
Of praise, that ran before the Friday's harm ;
Till late, on Palm-sun eve, I closed mine eyes.
Grasping the glossy spray we call a palm ;
I dream'd—a fond presumptuous pity took
My soul ; I seem'd to line the coming crown
Of thorns, with cushions of the silver down
From those cool sallows, cut beside the brook ;
But, on the act, quick came the reprimand,
' What mean'st thou, sinner ! with pretentious hand
To staunch the life-blood of the Incarnate Son ?
Without My wounds, the world remains undone ;
Why dost thou, then, forbid thy Lord to bleed ?
Why grudge mankind the Passion and the Creed ?
A RECANTATION.
'Twas Christ that spoke, while sitting on the Ass
Beneath the brows of OUvet, He gazed
Upon the rebel city, which, alas !
Was, in His weeping eyes, already razed :
Calm'd by His mild rebuke, I could not chide
Nor wipe His tears, and though His utmost grief
Lay bare before me, proffer'd no relief.
But, 'Oh ! forgive my folly. Lord,' I cried,—
Vailing the fair presumptuous palm I bore.
To the dark Cross His meeker servant wore ;
' Or I would rather be this little foal
That stands and waits, where Thou would'st wait and weep,
Than the light thinker, who would fain control
Thy love, and lull Thy holy pains to sleep.'
'
I read the Gospel-record of those cries
Of praise, that ran before the Friday's harm ;
Till late, on Palm-sun eve, I closed mine eyes.
Grasping the glossy spray we call a palm ;
I dream'd—a fond presumptuous pity took
My soul ; I seem'd to line the coming crown
Of thorns, with cushions of the silver down
From those cool sallows, cut beside the brook ;
But, on the act, quick came the reprimand,
' What mean'st thou, sinner ! with pretentious hand
To staunch the life-blood of the Incarnate Son ?
Without My wounds, the world remains undone ;
Why dost thou, then, forbid thy Lord to bleed ?
Why grudge mankind the Passion and the Creed ?
A RECANTATION.
'Twas Christ that spoke, while sitting on the Ass
Beneath the brows of OUvet, He gazed
Upon the rebel city, which, alas !
Was, in His weeping eyes, already razed :
Calm'd by His mild rebuke, I could not chide
Nor wipe His tears, and though His utmost grief
Lay bare before me, proffer'd no relief.
But, 'Oh ! forgive my folly. Lord,' I cried,—
Vailing the fair presumptuous palm I bore.
To the dark Cross His meeker servant wore ;
' Or I would rather be this little foal
That stands and waits, where Thou would'st wait and weep,
Than the light thinker, who would fain control
Thy love, and lull Thy holy pains to sleep.'
'