Brier - Good Friday

Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm
    Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
    I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire,
    Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
Because you walk before and crush the brier,
    It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened to
    My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,
That these harsh hands of mine add not unto
    The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Emily Pauline Johnson was a Canadian poet of mixed Mohawk and English heritage. She was born on March 10, 1861, on the Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario. Johnson became known for her performances, where she often wore a traditional Mohawk dress. Her published works include poetry, short stories, and essays that explore themes of identity, cultural heritage, and nature. She passed away on March 7, 1913, in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Emily Pauline Johnson

The Quill Worker

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

The Homing Bee

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Give Us Barabbas [1]

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

English

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Her Prayer.

    Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
    The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
    The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed
    Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
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    Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness
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    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
    Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!
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Good Friday

Am I a stone and not a sheep
    That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
    To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
    Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
    Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
    Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
    A horror of great darkness at broad noon -
I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,
    But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
    Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

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Easter

April 1, 1888

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading
    In her reluctant hands.
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
    As pensively she stands
Awaiting Easter's benediction falling,
    Like silver stars at night,
Before she can obey the summons calling
    Her to her upward flight,
Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow
    Ere she can hope to fly -
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow
    Against the far, blue sky.
Has not the purple of her vesture's lining
    Brought calm and rest to all?
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining
    Been naught but pleasure's pall?
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning
    In youth's light joyousness,
We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning
  ...

Emily Pauline Johnson

Good Friday Night

        At last the bird that sang so long
        In twilight circles, hushed his song:
        Above the ancient square
        The stars came here and there.

        Good Friday night! Some hearts were bowed,
        But some amid the waiting crowd
        Because of too much youth
        Felt not that mystic ruth;

        And of these hearts my heart was one:
        Nor when beneath the arch of stone
        With dirge and candle flame
        The cross of passion came,

        Did my glad spirit feel reproof,
        Though on the awful tree aloof,
        Unspiritual, dead,
        Drooped the ensanguined Head.

        To one who stood where myrtles made
        A little space of deeper shade
        (As I could half d...

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This Crosstree

              This   crosstree   here
              Doth    Jesus      bear,
              Who   sweet'ned   first
              The   death   accurs'd.
Here all things ready are, make haste, make haste away;
For long this  work will be,  and very short  this day.
Why then,  go on to  act:  here's  wonders to be  done
Before the last  least sand of  Thy ninth  hour be run;
Or ere dark  clouds do dull  or dead the mid-day's sun.
              Act  when   Thou  wilt,
              Blood  will  be  spilt;
              Pure  balm, that  shall
              Bring  health  to  all.
              Why     then,    begin
              To   pour   first   in
              Some   drops  of  wine,
              Instead    of    brine,
              To   search  the ...

Robert Herrick

If Grief For Grief Can Touch Thee

If grief for grief can touch thee,
If answering woe for woe,
If any truth can melt thee
Come to me now!

I cannot be more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart beats so wildly
'Twill break for thee.

And when the world despises,
When Heaven repels my prayer,
Will not mine angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?

Yes, by the tears I'm poured,
By all my hours of pain
O I shall surely win thee,
Beloved, again!

Emily Bronte