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...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: FLETCHER MCGEE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE FIDDLING WOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET MY FATHER'S FACE by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOR OUR BETTER GRACES by JAMES GALVIN GETTING A WORD IN by JAMES GALVIN DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 4. THE LOTTERY GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON HONEY DRIPPER by CLARENCE MAJOR |