Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity

When Christ to village comes or town,
With priests that on Him wait,
The Church her living dead lays down
Before Him in the gate.

For whoso know His will, and yet
Have stolen, sworn, or lied,
In His dread book their sin is set,
That hour, to Him, they died.

What if thou be but young in years,
A boy, or simple maid,
Yet in His sight thy soul appears
A corse for burial laid.

Thy sins, from His own holy place
Are bearing thee away,
But He may touch the bier, His grace
May bid thee rise and pray.

The Church, thy mother, weeps for thee,
Her tearful prayer perchance
May win the word of pardon, He
May break the deadly trance.

Only do thou sit up and speak
Soon as thou hear'st His call,
Him honour with confession meek,
He will forgive thee all.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.