WHEN rowan leaves are dank and rusting And rowan berries red as blood, When in my palm the hangman's thrusting The final nail with bony thud, When, over the foul flooding river, Upon the wet grey height, I toss Before my land's grim looks, and shiver As I swing here upon the cross, Then, through the blood and weeping, stretches My dying sight to space remote; I see upon the river's reaches Christ sailing to me in a boat. The same hopes in His eyes are dwelling, From Him the self-same tatters trail, And piteous from His garments swelling His hand, as mine, pierced by the nail. O Christ, how my own places grieve me! Upon the cross I faint and die. Oh will Thy boat yet come to save me Where I am crucified on high? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEAD AUTUMN by BEULAH ALLYNE BELL LOVE AND THE MUSE by MATHILDE BLIND AN EPISTLE THROWN INTO A RIVER IN A BALL OF WAX by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 10 by THOMAS CAMPION THE SECRET OF THE CROSS by M. J. CLARKSON NED VAUGHAN by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE |