Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men's groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
|About the poet|
|By the same poet|
|The Ballad of Reading Gaol|
|Sonnet to Liberty|
|Libertatis Sacra Fames|
|The Garden Of Eros|
|Sonnet On Approaching Italy|
|Ave Maria Gratia Plena|
|Holy Week at Genoa|
|Urbs Sacra Aeterna|
|Sonnet on Hearing the Dies Irae Sung in the Sistine Chapel|
|Oscar Wilde at amazon.co.uk|