LORD, near Thy cross, as men count nearness, My cross stands, And tortured like Thine own, and bleeding, Are my hands. Thine were wounded in the dwelling Of Thy friends, Yet rich blessing in their crimson Dew descends. And from Thy tree Thy hands are plucking Fruit of bliss; Mine, in life and death, are empty— All amiss. Ah! how little it beseemeth Me to rail, Whose own fingers drew the cordage, Drove the nail! Yet, remember, Lord, and pity These my bands, And when Thou comest to Thy Kingdom, Heal my hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 43 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: 'EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE' by RUDYARD KIPLING ON THOSE THAT HATED 'THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD' by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON SICK LEAVE, 1916 by HAMILTON FISH ARMSTRONG TWELVE SONNETS: 7. PERFECT UNION by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |