CHRIST'S Heart was wrung for me, if mine is sore; And if my feet are weary, His have bled; He had no place wherein to lay His Head; If I am burdened, He was burdened more. The cup I drink He drank of long before; He felt the unuttered anguish which I dread; He hungered Who the hungry thousands fed, And thirsted Who the world's refreshment bore. If grief be such a looking-glass as shows Christ's Face and man's in some sort made alike, Then grief is pleasure with a subtle taste: Wherefore should any fret or faint or haste? Grief is not grievous to a soul that knows Christ comes, -- and listens for that hour to strike. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NURSING HOME: THE DOLL by KAREN SWENSON THE PICKET-GUARD [NOVEMBER, 1861] by ETHEL LYNN BEERS THREE FRIENDS OF MINE: 5; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: FIDDLER JONES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ODES I, 38. AD MINISTRAM by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ by ALFRED TENNYSON |