Half Dead

O Christ the Life, look on me where I lie Ready to die: O Good Samaritan, nay, pass not by. O Christ, my Life, pour in Thine oil and wine To keep me Thine; Me ever Thine, and Thee for ever mine. Watch by Thy saints and sinners, watch by all Thy great and small: Once Thou didst call us all,—O Lord, recall. Think how Thy saints love sinners, how they pray And hope alway, And thereby grow more like Thee day by day. O Saint of saints, if those with prayer and vow Succour us now... It was not they died for us, it was Thou.

“One of the Soldiers with a Spear pierced his Side.”

Ah, Lord, we all have pierced Thee: wilt Thou be Wroth with us all to slay us all? Nay, Lord, be this thing far from Thee and me: By whom should we arise, for we are small, By whom if not by Thee?

Lord, if of us who pierced Thee Thou spare one, Spare yet one more to love Thy Face, And yet another of poor souls undone, Another, and another—God of grace, Let mercy overrun.

Where love is, there comes sorrow To-day or else to-morrow: Endure the mood, Love only means our good.

Where love is, there comes pleasure With or withouten measure, Early or late Cheering the sorriest state.

Where love is, all perfection Is stored for heart’s delection; For where love is Dwells every sort of bliss.

Who would not choose a sorrow Love’s self will cheer to-morrow? One day of sorrow, Then such a long to-morrow!

Bury Hope out of sight, No book for it and no bell; It never could bear the light Even while growing and well: Think if now it could bear The light on its face of care And grey scattered hair.

No grave for Hope in the earth, But deep in that silent soul Which rang no bell for its birth And rings no funeral toll. Cover its once bright head; Nor odours nor tears be shed: It lived once, it is dead.

Brief was the day of its power, The day of its grace how brief: As the fading of a flower, As the falling of a leaf, So brief its day and its hour; No bud more and no bower Or hint of a flower.

Shall many wail it? not so: Shall one bewail it? not one: Thus it hath been from long ago, Thus it shall be beneath the sun. O fleet sun, make haste to flee; O rivers, fill up the sea; O Death, set the dying free.

The sun nor loiters nor speeds, The rivers run as they ran, Thro’ clouds or thro’ windy reeds All run as when all began. Only Death turns at our cries:— Lo, the Hope we buried with sighs Alive in Death’s eyes!