AMID the blithe, resurgent spring, The buds that burst, the birds that sing, The first flowers on the tufted lea, A sad voice whispers constantly, "Wherefore hast Thou forsaken me?" Thus spake to-day the sacred word, By souls desponding clearly heard, As of old time on Calvary, Not yet its power has ceased to be -- "Wherefore hast Thou forsaken me?" How many a martyr since, in pain, Has scanned the blinded heavens in vain For some consoling vision fair, Despised, rejected, in despair, And found no answering Presence there; Nor solace for his failing breath, But insults only, stripes and death; And yet, though the weak flesh might shrink, The soul, in hopeless suffering sink, Has drunk the cup 'twas His to drink. How many a pioneer of thought Sure, yet of all men set at nought, Has pined 'neath Love's averted eyes. Mourned peace, exchanged for tears and sighs, And seeming futile sacrifice; Yet borne, unholpen, to the end, Whatever fortune Truth might send, Content with life to free the slave, Tho' Doubt should sneer, and Force should rave, Who others, not himself, might save. Truth's precious martyrs these, and He Greatest since Time began to be, Adorable despondence, fine, Which links the human and divine, And yet the strength of strength was Thine! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAT GAL O' MINE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE SEASONS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON EARTH IS ENOUGH by EDWIN MARKHAM AT THE MERMAID TAVERN (APRIL 10, 1613) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BOOTH'S PHILIPPI by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PEOPLE'S SURROUNDINGS by MARIANNE MOORE ESSAY: AT NIGHT THE AUTOPORTRAIT AT NIGHT by ELENI SIKELIANOS |