'Twas Christ that spoke, while sitting on the Ass Beneath the brows of Olivet, He gaz'd Upon the rebel city, which, alas! Was, in His weeping eyes, already raz'd: 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.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITANY: 10. THE MARTYRS by JOHN DONNE THE MEDAL; A SATIRE AGAINST SEDITION by JOHN DRYDEN CAELICA: 100 by FULKE GREVILLE CATTLE SHOW by CHRISTOPHER MURRAY GRIEVE THE OLD MAN DREAMS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES VERSES FOR CHILDREN: CHRISTMAS TREE by ZEDA K. AILES ON THE LOSS OF PROFESSOR FISHER by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |