Cut me away from dim caprice,
And sheer me from the reedy fleece!
Let my poor, shivering motion cease,
Dead of Thy peace:
A reed and no more shaken—yea,
No more a slant sedge-reed I pray!
No more! But, Mercy infinite,
Let me not be a reed to smite
The thorns within Thy forehead tight,
And urge to sight
Thy sacred Blood and urge Thy pain!
Better the devious winds again!
Upon Thy lips let me but lay
Such sour, dun vintage as I may;
Push not the sponge-tipped spear away,
But let it stay!
Oh, let the bitter draught through me
Bring to Thy Cross some lenity!
CRYING OUT
IN the Orient heat He stands—
Heat that makes the palm-trees dim,
Palms that do not shelter Him,
As under the fierce blue He stands with outstretched hands.
As a lizard of the rocks,
Under furnace-sun He stays;
Earth beneath Him in a daze
Is faint and trembling, spite of rocks, in shadeless blocks.
He among them mid the blue,
With a mouth wide open held,
As a lion-fountain welled
Under the spaciousness of blue, the heat throbs through.
Wide His mouth as lion’s, set
Wide for waters of a fount!
Through them words of challenge mount,
Great words that cry through them, wide-set, where men have met.
“Ye the thirsty come to Me!”
So He cries with lion-roar:
“Ye will thirst not any more.
Come!” and He stands for all to see, and offers free.
Jesus, in the Eastern sun,
A strange prophet with His cry!
While the folk are passing by,
And clack their tongues, nor will they run where thirst is done.