Page:The whistle maker, and other poems (IA whistlemakerothe00rick).pdf/9

 

The chilling night winds shake the trees,
 * Black night is all around,

The Master-man on bended knees
 * Sends forth a pleading sound.

He prays alone, while bloodlike sweat
 * From brow and heart wells up—

"O, Father mine, forgive, forget!
 * Let pass this bitter cup."

"Yet not My will, but Thine be done;
 * Thou see'st and knowest all,

Though mortal man, I'm still Thy son;
 * —This cup is filled with gall.

"Came I for this, to suffer pain
 * Man's soul to save from loss,

That I as sacrifice once slain,
 * Should bear his future cross.

But now the years before Me roll,
 * The sons of man I see

In murderous strife take dreadful toll,
 * Forgetting Thou and Me!

But, calling on Thy name withal.
 * O, mockery! O, shame!

While by their hands their brothers fall,
 * Through murder-seeking fame.

"O, Father, let this bitter cup
 * Of man's redemption be

Placed to My lips when lifted up
 * Through Me let them be free.

When starting from Thy throne I knew
 * Great sorrow there must be,

Ere man could gain the higher view
 * Or be as one with Me.

But cries of women come tonight—
 * A mighty surging flood;

They call to Me to give men light
 * And still this sea of blood!"

