Читать книгу Poems of Adoration - Michael Field E. - Страница 17

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LO, from Thy Father’s bosom Thou dost sigh;

Deep to Thy restlessness His ear is bent:—

“Father, the Paraclete is sent,

Wrapt in a foaming wind He passeth by.

Behold, men’s hearts are shaken—I must die:

Sure as a star within the firmament

Must be my dying: lo, my wood is rent,

My cross is sunken! Father, I must die!”

Lo, how God loveth us, He looseth hold....

His Son is back among us, with His own,

And craving at our hands an altar-stone.

Thereon, a victim, meek He takes his place;

And, while to offer Him His priests make bold,

He looketh upward to His Father’s Face.