CHRIST'S Heart was wrung for me, if mine is sore; And if my feet are weary, His have bled; He had no place wherein to lay His Head; If I am burdened, He was burdened more. The cup I drink He drank of long before; He felt the unuttered anguish which I dread; He hungered Who the hungry thousands fed, And thirsted Who the world's refreshment bore. If grief be such a looking-glass as shows Christ's Face and man's in some sort made alike, Then grief is pleasure with a subtle taste: Wherefore should any fret or faint or haste? Grief is not grievous to a soul that knows Christ comes, -- and listens for that hour to strike. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE YOUTH OF NATURE: WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY by MATTHEW ARNOLD NIGHT, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE TRUE UNTIL DEATH by ROBERT BURNS ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST by ANDREW MARVELL WHY THUS LONGING by HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF P. BURGESS; A CHILD OF SUPERIOR ENDOWMENTS by BERNARD BARTON |