At last a Christ upon the waiting world,
Redeem it to more purpose than the last!
So fills his sorrow, and Her sympathy,
My common soul, that I am fain to fall
Upon my face, and cry aloud to God:
“O Thou, Sole Wise, Sole Pure, Sole Merciful,
Who hast thus shewn Thy mystery to man:
Grant that his coming may be very soon!”
See, the sobs shake me like a little child.
The moon is crescent, waxing in the West.