GRAY gloomed the hillside. Through the solemn hush Of dole, the third dark hour--reluctant, shamed-- Slow yielded to its close. Below the cross The Holy Mother knelt in quivering calm Her waiting arms in anguish upward reached To take again her Son, her little boy,-- Her baby!--while, pale through the mystic dusk Her lifted face in adoration dwelt Upon her Lord. Then near at hand there broke A woman's sobbing, low and wretched and fierce, The cry of one whose hurt is worse than death; And Mary, bending sweet within her veil, Laid her high grief aside to pray, "Dear God, Ah, comfort Thou the mother of the thief!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF A MACHINE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER CHRISTMAS CAROL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR MODERN LOVE: 34 by GEORGE MEREDITH COWLEY: THE GARDEN by ALEXANDER POPE O YOU WHOM I OFTEN AND SILENTLY COME by WALT WHITMAN TWO HELPERS by MARY RUSSELL BARTLETT THE FADELESS CANVAS by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN |